Overwatch: Rise of the Successor
by SteelyThePally
Summary: Jackson, an uninspired boy from Baltimore, has a new light shone onto his uneventful life after being involved and playing a major role in a battle between heroes and villains for Doomfist's legendary Gauntlet in a Museum. Inspired by Tracer's words, he sets out on an ambitious journey to become a hero himself, and face all the challenges that come with it.
1. Humble Beginnings

**Hello everyone!**

 **While I've been mostly on the SnK/AoT spectrum of writing, I've decided to clear my mind with something new, and Overwatch's cinematic trailer gave me a good idea for it. So basically, I wanted to create a hero out of the trailer boy (The one in the blue hoodie.), and the concept of a young hero inspired by more experienced ones taking matters into his own hands just stuck to me. So, well, here it is. I hope I managed to deliver you guys a quality experience!**

 **...**

Jackson was exhausted.

Never before had he experienced such a tiring yet amazing day. What was supposed to be a trip to the Museum of Recent Human History in the sprawling metropolis of Baltimore to check out the brand new Overwatch exhibit became a tense (Even if surprisingly awesome) battle for Doomfist's Gauntlet. A battle that he and his brother got caught in, and even took part in, when he donned the legendary power fist to knock away one of the marauders. Not only that, but they were soon surrounded by the press and the police, all much interested in his heroic feat among the two other heroes that were too involved in the conflict, yet were now distant in pursuit of the perpetrators. They were held by the annoying reporters for almost an hour and a half, and were only allowed to leave by the time the sun was starting to set in the horizon.

A sigh escaped his lips once he set foot inside his home, allowing his still overly energetic brother to enter before closing the door behind them. Sweet heavens, he was drained. His right arm, the one used to wield the powerful Gauntlet, was sore and protested at the slightest of movements. On top of that, he felt mentally exhausted, the repetitive and intrusive questions from press members and officers alike echoing in his ears, and he swore he could still see the flashes of the cameras, blinding his poor eyes. He inhaled deeply, locking the front door and turning around to see his little brother sporting the biggest grin his lips could ever provide.

"Bro, that was soooo coool!" He exclaimed, flailing his arms with vigor despite too being winded from the ordeal at the Museum. Jackson had to admit, little Albert, at only 9 years of age, had a seemingly infinite storage of energy, as his broken right arm didn't keep him from doing almost anything a kid his age could do. "Tracer and Winston came and just kicked their butts! And you!" He took a pause, huffing from his excessive excitement. "You up and grabbed Doomfist's Gauntlet and punched that thief meters away! Just like the original Doomfist would!"

Jackson couldn't help but to smile. Albert sometimes was just too much for him to maintain his uninterested and bored attitude up and running at all times. He let out a chuckle, setting the keys to the house on the dining table and ruffling his brother's hair. "Yeah, it was… pretty amazing." His gaze fell at the memory of the Gauntlet malfunctioning after being used only once, and a wave of guilt washed over him. "I… still feel pretty bad over the Gauntlet though. I mean, I didn't expect it to be fully functional, and I kinda ruined it… What if the Overwatch get mad at me? They're disbanded and all, but…"

That earned him a friendly punch on the shoulder from his brother, who stuck out his tongue and shook his head, a goofy smile brightening his face even more. "Are you kidding me, bro?! Tracer wasn't even mad at you! Tracer! The super awesome time-travelling adventurerl!" He struck a pose, one very reminiscent of Tracer's trademark one, and spun imaginary pistols in his fingers. "She even said," A pause, and Albert forced a terrible Cockney accent, performing a quick salute, **"You know, the world could always use more heroes!"**

The older brother gave in to the imitation, forgetting his worries for a moment and smiling broadly at the small boy, ruffling his hair even more. Even if it was rather hard to admit it, considering his great disappointment with the Overwatch due to their disbanding, Jackson couldn't hold back the feeling of sheer inspiration welling up in his chest. Lena Oxton, also known as the fantastic Tracer, implied that he, an average teenager from Baltimore, had the potential to be a hero. In years he hadn't felt so much motivation and impulse to go and do something bigger, something that could bring change. After all this time living a monotonous life, it seemed that this event at the Museum had shone a whole new light in his life, opening the gates to a myriad of opportunities…

He cut his own train of thought with a quick shake of his head, being brought back to the real world as he caught sight of his brother poking at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"You there? You kinda doozed off for a moment." Albert said, snapping his fingers in front of Jackson's face.

"Yeah, yeah, I just lost myself for a bit." He replied, blinking several times, as if pretending to blink away his tiredness. "I'm a bit tired." His phone buzzed in his pocket, prompting him to reach for it in his pockets and check the screen. A call from his mother, he noticed. Jackson swiped his finger across the screen, answering it immediately.

"Jackson?!" Came her voice, laced with extreme concern and what sounded like a bit of panic. "Finally, you picked up! Is everything okay? How are you and Albert? Are you both at home? You didn't get hurt did you-"

"Mom, mom, I'm here." He interrupted her, earning a relieved sigh from the other end of the line. While her concern was greatly appreciated and understandable, he couldn't help but to feel slightly aggravated at her bombardment of questions. "I'm home with Albert, we're fine. The press was just annoying, and the cops just asked us about information on the guys who crashed the museum, that's all."

"Oh, sweet heavens, I was so worried… I'm sorry for not calling earlier. Boss didn't let me contact you or your dad despite the situation." She seemed calmer now, and Jackson inhaled deeply, allowing his annoyance to dissipate some. "I managed to get out of work, but your dad won't be around until later. I'm driving home right now, sweetie."

"Okay, mom. I'll be waiting for you." A pregnant silence fell, even with his mother's scared breathing. "And again, we're alright. I'm sure the press or the police won't come to bugger us."

"Of course sweetie, no problem." She said, releasing a deep breath to calm herself down. "I'll be there in a few okay?"

"Alright, mom. See you."

"See you, sweet son!" With that, she hung up, leaving Jackson with a small tint of pink on his cheeks for the usage of his childhood nickname.

While it may seem worrying for a parent to contact their children this late after a troubling event, he wasn't really surprised, or even enraged; His parents worked hard despite them not facing any hardships, aiming to give their sons a quality life, and were often unavailable due to the high responsibilities surrounding their occupations. Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he turned to Albert, who was already climbing up the stairs, making combat and blast sounds with his mouth as he did. "Hey, mom just called. She's coming home in a few to check on us."

Albert gave him a quick thumbs up, hurrying all the way over to the house's second floor, still imitating blaster sounds with his mouth as he went. Jackson simply chuckled and tucked his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie, following his brother suit. The younger boy was quick to enter his room, snatching away two small action figures from one of his shelves littered with similar figures. The older brother simply leant by the doorway as his sibling threw himself in bed, amusing himself with the toys, which, much to Jackson's expectations, were representations of Tracer and Winston in their Overwatch days.

The two remained in silent save for Albert's excited noises and the eventual 'clank' made from the contact between the two plastic figures. Albert was too involved in recreating the fight with the toys, sleep slowly getting to him, while his brother stared out of the window, admiring the orange and yellow hue of the skies with a blank expression while his mind ran wild with the memories of his day at the Museum and the sudden influx of inspiration that had been injected in him by Tracer's words. _Could I really be fit for that…?_

Before he could delve deeper into the possibilities and into the realm of imagination, Albert snapped him once again from his thoughts. "Hey, bro…" He started, tiredly, yawning and gently resting the action figures on his belly. His big, blue eyes met with his brother's matching ones, instantly getting his attention. "Would you consider Tracer's offer?"

"What?!" Jackson spat suddenly, eyes widening and arms being held in a defensive position. He was quick to notice the exaggeration, however, and sighed, leaning back against the wall and throwing the child a questioning look. "I mean, what offer? She didn't offer me anything! She just said that the world could use more heroes." He was going against his own will, in a way, as Tracer's words still lit the fire of excitement and motivation inside him. "That doesn't mean anything!"

"Of course it does, man!" Albert countered, smiling defiantly at his brother as he pumped his good arm in the air. "She totally said that because she sees a hero in you! A super, hyper, über hero!" His fit of sudden euphoria was cut down rather quickly by another yawn, making him rub his eyes. "Tracer, bro! You know, the-"

He was about to go on another imitation moment, but Jackson was faster this time, waving his arm. "Yes, yes, I know… but it's not like they'd get heroes recruited for the organization, right?" Jack turned to his side, eyes running over his brother's vast collection of toys and movies, as well as a few video games. His gaze lingered on the Overwatch figurines, mind racing back to the events at the Museum. "Like, most heroes were professional soldiers, others were brilliant scientists with awesome gadgets, and even adventurers with years of experience on their backs. Plus, the Overwatch got shut down years ago…" He let his words fluctuate a bit, as he remembered well that Winston's armor bore the colors of the Overwatch. Something in his mind wanted to believe that it was making a comeback, throwing more fuel to the fires of his inflamed spirits, yet his uninterested demeanor was quick to come back, pushing the possibility away. "So I dunno what you're-"

Jackson cut himself off as he heard a loud snore, whipping his head towards Albert, only to see the boy sleeping deeply, mouth open and a line of drool slowly descending onto the covers. Smiling warmly, he walked up to the unconscious Albert, gently putting him in a more comfortable position as well as collecting Tracer's and Winston's action figures to avoid disturbing his slumber. As he left the room, he neatly arranged them back on the shelves, yet he didn't seem to be able to take his eyes off of the Tracer figure, thoughts flying back to the failed heist.

Humming as his mind raced once again, he made his way to his own bedroom, throwing himself down on his office chair without much care. It creaked in protest, yet Jackson simply pushed his foot against his desk, spinning himself around slowly, eyes still fixated on the small Tracer in his hands. The memories of the Museum fight flooded his conscience, the one where he punched the purple skinned sniper lady meters away with an energetic blast and Tracer telling him that the world could certainly use more heroic types shining brighter than the others. The same feeling of bottled euphoria, the feeling that he could go out and take on Baltimore's criminals with his bare fists, the feeling of being **something else…** It was all greatly overwhelming for someone so uninspired throughout most of his life, yet so empowering and motivational that it somehow mined through his cynicism.

He sighed, sitting up and setting the Tracer figure on his desk. For someone who had never had a single drop of inspiration or a general goal in their life, this was more than enough incentive for Jackson. From a young age, he was a big fan of the heroic Overwatch, following their every achievement and even aspiring to join it, as impossible as it may have seemed. However, his mother's wishes of him becoming a successful robotics technician just like his father often clashed with his dreams, which were utterly crushed once the organization was disbanded by the dreaded Petras Act, eventually torn asunder by internal complications as conflicts rose across the world. This only served as proof to his mother for her to turn him away from it, leaving Jackson disheartened and eventually lacking in interest for most if not all activities.

But now… now things changed. He had been given the impulse he needed. Something in him told him that it was rather arrogant and egotistical to think of himself as a hero in comparison to the former Overwatch agents, yet this wish to become something more than just a boring robotics technician was irrepressible after what went down. A big, certainly goofy smile appeared on his face as he finally let his imagination run free, no worries or cynic thoughts barring his train of creativity now. As delusional as his idea was, he clung to it, having been finally given a somewhat achievable goal to pursue.

And with that, Jackson excitedly reached for a pencil and paper neatly arranged on his desk, tapping the pencil against the surface as his brain whirred with all sorts of ideas.

No matter what now, he was going to be a **hero.**

…

God above, since when was being a hero so hard?

Not that he had even gotten started at his new 'occupation', no. Jackson was inside his room, hands buried in his hair as he once again read all the information available on Jack Morrison, Overwatch's founder and one of its most respected and accomplished agents. The boy simply didn't know how to kick this all off: The enthusiasm still burnt inside him, seeing that it somehow repaired some of his energy from his childhood, yet the lack of ideas or at least a solid starting point or even a general direction to pursue his newly found objective was utterly frustrating.

Releasing a groan, he was quick to cover his mouth, allowing silence to settle for a moment with a panicked look in his eyes. He couldn't afford to make too much noise, seeing that it was 11PM, and all of his family was already in bed. He should be too, yet his excitement was too great to be contained, and for all he knew, good ideas had to be written on paper somewhere before they escaped his grasp. The lack of progress, however, caught up to him, and he bit down on his pajama's collar, a muffled groan following.

Silence came once again, his hands brought to his face as he leaned back against the chair, almost on the verge of giving up. A disappointed sigh came, and he went back to browsing the Internet… until something caught his eye. An advert to some shady, probably fake Overwatch game, with the original Doomfist on the center. His eyes shot wide with sudden realization. _How could I have been so dumb!_ He thought, mentally punching himself.

Certainly, he wasn't exactly the most fitting successor to Doomfist, if he could even be called a successor to the amazing power-gauntlet man, yet the concept seemed like a start. Plus, his mother had ingressed him in his school's robotics class since the beginning of this year, and while so far he had only crafted simplistic mechanisms with his lack of inspiration, now he could certainly spawn something… interesting to say the least. His brain worked at what felt like lightspeed, and within seconds, he had grabbed his phone, his 'The Many Uses of Robotic Engineering' book, several sheets of paper and a pencil; His father's basement awaited him.

He quickly turned off his computer and opened his door quickly, looking from side to side in the house's darkened corridor. Silence still reigned supreme in the house, save for his father's loud snoring, which was noticeable despite their bedroom door being locked. Sighing in relief, he tiptoed his way to the stairs, his head whipping in every direction for any signs of his parents or his brothers waking up for whatever reason.

Jackson descended the stairs as stealthily as he could, feet gently touching every step before he applied his full weight on them. It may be 2056, yet wooden floors were still a pain to get around without sounding like a haunted house's front door. Even though the act of sneaking in his own house felt a bit clandestine regarding his mother's somewhat strict rules on bedtimes, it still was exhilarating, in a way, and the mere thought of visiting and tinkering in his father's was more than enough fuel to make him go on.

The subtle silvery rays of moonlight seeped into the open windows of the house, providing him with a level of lighting to find himself around the living room. Jackson made his way over to the basement door, right next to the kitchen counter, his heart starting to beat loudly in his heart. He was rather surprised, in a way. It has been a while since he felt this much anticipation, even if his craftsmanship skills weren't that great to create something even remotely akin to a gauntlet. His hands reached for the knob, and the door swung open slowly… revealing a pitch-black descent into darkness.

A shiver ran down his spine. Since when was the basement this dark, anyways? Just staring at it felt like a pair of glowing eyes would stare back, or some creature would snatch him away forever the second he set foot on the small staircase leading to the basement. Jackson shook his head, scoffing silently at his cowardly thoughts. Inhaling deeply, he sucked his fear as much as he could and stepped in; But not before long since fear was quick to return to him, arms desperately searching for the light switch until a dim yellow light flashed on the center of the basement, flickering some before shining at full strength. Jackson sighed, quickly closing the door behind him before the light could disturb his family.

Upon turning around, however, he was amazed, mouth gaping at the sight, even: Boxes filled with tools, large sheets of metal and other advanced materials, blueprints glued precariously to the walls, welders and blowtorches spread messily on the floor, scorch marks here and there, and even the odd and outdated Omnic skeleton model, its limbs spread on top of a large table as if it was awaiting to be assembled. "Wow…" He muttered, stepping more confidently towards the center of the basement.

It wasn't long until he started to feel giddy. Without even thinking, he dropped the objects he carried with him on the table, gently pushing aside the sturdy metallic legs of the yet-to-be formed Omnic to free up some space. _Never knew that had this much stuff in the basement…_ He thought, eyes still wandering around his father's impressive inventory. Granted, the man had been a technician for years, and even though the basement hasn't been used in a while, it still sported a staggering inventory.

Now that he had everything set up, Jackson whipped out his phone, accessing the Internet browser and quickly searching "Doomfist". Several results appeared, yet, for reference, he looked at the pictures, zooming in the most detailed one he could find. A hum came from him. Well… he wouldn't be able to replicate anything of that caliber, obviously. The Gauntlet was bulky, covered in a strong metallic material, and sporting what looked like two fusion cores, let alone the colored plating, with the embed **"DF".** Yeah, he certainly wouldn't get even close to create something so complex, yet he was excited to aim for something somewhat simpler.

Opening the book he brought, he flipped the pages until he had reached the 'Limbs and Other Human-Like Contraptions' section, which covered in detail the crafting of mechanisms that acted like arms and hands. Just from the illustrations, he could remember some of his classes in Robotics, where he crafted a very simple three-finger hand. Furrowing his brows, he held his chin in his hand as he tried to find a good starting point. Not a moment until he noticed the unused Omnic limbs, more specifically the forearms. His hand reached for one, examining it closely. The fingers fell limply as they were moved, showing him that the arm had only been given the external plating, the insides still hollow as they needed the proper systems to create a functioning Omnic.

Jackson's eyes brightened as an idea came to mind. He gave the interior of the forearm a quick look, proving that it was hollow, and carefully inserted his left arm inside, hissing a bit as his hand brushed against a few rough edges. Much to his surprise, the empty fingers managed to accomodate his own, albeit rather loosely, and reacted well as he opened and closed his hand. Glee shone in his eyes at the discovery, a whole new world of possibilities appearing in his mind. Out of excitement, he stroke a brief power pose, throwing a series of punches… until it slid out of his hand, clanking limply on the floor.

"Oops…" Jackson muttered, gritting his teeth in worry, before scooping it off the floor and putting it back on the table. He went back to pondering on how to counter the problem, searching for a possible fix. Soon enough, he turned to the myriad of resources around him, immediately walking over to them upon spotting a few useful-looking components. Before he started collecting them, he stretched, joints popping and earning a relaxed if not sleepy sigh. "Okay, let me see what I can do…"

What followed was seemingly tireless hammering, welding, screwing, coiling, wrapping, measuring, experimenting, examining, researching, drawing and planning, time flying by as Jackson got his hands dirty, scratched and even lightly burned (He wasn't very experienced with a welder, leaving small scorch marks on his palms as he progressed.), his creation taking a rather cheap but solid appearance. In the process, he found himself wearing gloves and goggles, only encouraging him further with the craftsman vibe given by them.

A few more moments passed like seconds for him, and it was done. Well, he believed it was so, at least, but it looked pretty good so far. In all the time that had gone by (He had lost track of time as he was completely absorbed in exploiting his rookie robotics skills.), he had managed to coil two leather straps around the joints, making the gauntlet hug his forearm and hand more securely, even if he had to wear gloves to avoid injuring his hand when moving it. For a more combat oriented addition, he welded and strapped several plates of metal on the knuckles with duct tape, so that he could have that extra power against the bad guys that he wished to best. Jackson smiled broadly at his creation, as primitive and simplistic as it was, and couldn't help but to throw several punches into the air, the gauntlet only jiggling lightly with the aid of the leather straps. It stung here and there from the rough edges inside the hollowed arm, but that was a problem for another day.

"This is so awesome!" He exclaimed in a hushed tone, ignoring the soreness growing in his right arm because of the added weight. Sure, the gauntlet was nowhere similar or powerful as Doomfist's, but it could certainly hurt if connected with someone's face or chest, courtesy of the badly welded and later strapped-with-duct-tape metal parts. Granted, the force would reflect on his knuckles, as an Omnic's hand was in no shape or form meant to fit the hand of a 15 year old human, but he had to do with it for the time's being.

It didn't take long before his energetic fit finally ended, his shoulders slumping forward and a yawn making him rub his eyes tiredly. Now he was _really_ exhausted. Deciding to call it a day, Jackson grabbed his phone with his free left hand, eyes going as wide as they could at the time: Exactly three and a half in the morning. Panic settled in, being suddenly reminded of school and his mother's anger should he wake up late to take his brother along as well. He didn't bother to remove his gauntlet, balancing all his belongings on top of it precariously, and shut the lights, leaving the basement as fast as the weight he was carrying allowed him to.

Left without anything else to do, he made his way to his room, albeit more slowly, considering that his creation was rather noise with movement. Once inside, Jackson carefully set his book and drawings on his desk, only putting the book over the papers to keep them hidden (From his brother, mainly, as the kid would certainly go ballistic should he discover his older bro's schemes.). With that done, he had to find a hiding place for his cheap gauntlet, removing the leather straps to help it come out. Perhaps under the bed…

As he scanned his room for a suitable storage spot, his eyes eventually fell on the mirror in his room, his image completely visible due to the moonlight creeping in from the window. Despite the messy appearance of his dark blonde hair, the rings under his eyes and the wrinkled aspect of his PJ's sleeves… Jackson seemed lively. Since the disbanding of Overwatch and his mom's gradually more pressuring advances on making him an eventual technician, he always looked bored or plain dull, as if something had robbed the life out of his blue eyes. Now, however, his face, while tired, appeared to shine with youth and exhausted joy, a small yet noticeable smile refusing to go away on his lips.

Chuckling at his rather silly conclusion, he crouched and hid his creation under the bed, the feeling of accomplishment within him still not disappearing. Regardless to say, he was happy. In just one day, he had played a major role in the outcome of a battle, been inspired by one of the greatest heroes the world has seen, and made a huge advancement in his ambitious idea of becoming something akin to a hero. Waiting no longer, he stretched and threw himself in bed, a joyful sigh leaving his mouth as he was soon asleep, face still marked with an expression of fulfillment.

Because for all that he knew, this day marked the birth of a new Jackson. Ambitious, ingenious, energetic, inspired, courageous. And if all went right, **heroic.**

…

 **Well, that's all for the first chapter. I really apologize if the lack of action made it boring, but I already have some stuff going on for the next chapter, which I'll start working on as soon as possible. Please, review the story and point out anything I may have missed in my proofreading, as well as something that may have an impact on the flow of the fic. It's been a while since I've written, and I'm rather rusty.**

 **Anyways, I'll see you guys in the next chapter!**

 **-SteelyThePally**


	2. A Hero is Born

**Hello everyone! I welcome you all to the new chapter of Overwatch: Rise of the Successor.**

 **I first want to thank all who favorited, followed and reviewed the story. It's great for my esteem, and only gives me fuel to go on. Secondly, I'd like to apologize for the wait; I had tests, and the writing of the first chapter resulted in me failing two subjects.**

 **Regardless, hope you all enjoy it!**

 **...**

Jackson's pen tapped impatiently against his notebook consistently, eyes glued to the piece of paper in front of him, brain working fervently on the task at hand. For a moment, it seemed that all sound around him had vanished, his concentration putting him under a trance of incessant ponderation.

How come that devising a decent name for him to use was this hard?

Not even a day as a self-proclaimed hero, and Jackson had gone through more stress than when he was faced with tests. He gritted his teeth, casting a dark look over the list of monikers he had come up with over the last half hour, eyebrows furrowing with the apparent lack of progress. He had thought of everything possible that didn't involve only Doomfist, as he wasn't exactly a candidate to inherit the legendary title, and he could classify the results as ranging from terrible to apocalyptic: Power Punch, Doomfist Jr. (Which was probably the silliest, and had multiple angry lines stricken over it.), Doomfist Boy, Gauntlet of Steel… None of them sounded good, or rather, fitting. He was not one to brag, so naming himself something overly pretentious or flashy was out of question, further reinforced by how any examples of that were scribbled over and already forgotten. Met with another dead end, he dropped the pen on the desk and exhaled, resting his cheek against his hand.

' _Hmm… maybe Power Strike? Power Gauntlet…'_ He started to tap his pen again as new ideas came, writing down the most relevant ones. A part of him wanted to question the importance of creating a moniker, since his pursuit of a hero life could easily take a turn for the worst or never take off, yet said part was too insignificant to even have some weight in his decisions. Shrugging it off, his brainstorm resumed, ' _Shock Fist? Shockwave sounds pretty cool, but I don't create any schoc-'_

"Jackson, would you mind answering question number two for us?" A calm yet stern voice came, and suddenly Jackson was yanked off of his little world, and thrown back into school, inside the classroom he was currently in. Just the feeling of a couple of other people boring holes into his skull as they waited for his response was enough for him to quickly flip the pages on his notebook back to the where he had taken notes from his History classes, hiding the name list, and giving the question written on the board a good, examining look; "Explain the grinding halt of Napoleon's European conquest in 1812."

His stomach froze as nearly every student in the classroom turned to face him, his face becoming slightly red with the sudden attention. Thankfully, he had remember this part of History well, and the answer seemed to be on the tip of his tongue already. "W-well…" He started, clearing his throat to disguise his stutter. "He was invading Russia, but the weather conditions, more importantly the harsh winter, and the Russian's scorched earth strategies made Napoleon retreat…?"

An approving hum came from the teacher, - a middle aged man with greying hairs and a supposedly perpetual frown - he quickly wrote a more detailed version of his answer. Jackson sighed in relief. He wouldn't become laughing stock any time soon… or well, he already was. He winced grimly yet subtly at the memory of the upperclassmen that loved to mess with him whenever possible, and an ache came to his heart when he realized that they'd have more fuel to talk trash about him after what happened in the museum. He pushed his worries to the back of his head, and decided to focus on his teacher, who was still droning on about the questions regarding 19th century Europe.

Just as he was getting involved in the subject, however, the bell rang, signaling that break had started. The students sprung up from their desks with sudden enthusiasm, chatter filling the air in a matter of seconds. They all made a beeline towards the door and flooded the corridors, yet Jackson was considerably slower, collecting his lunch money as another student approached him, stopping and rocking back and forth on their feet. Jackson hurried up and put the money in his hoodie's pockets, turning around to face his friend, who gave him an ear to ear grin.

"You know…" He started, adjusting his big glasses as they walked out of the classroom, his dark, tidy brown hair giving him an aura of innocence. "It's quite… uh, what's that word?" A few snaps of his fingers, and he seemed to remember it, his features brightening, aided by his vibrant green eyes and freckles covering his cheeks and nose. "Refreshing! Yeah, well, it's pretty refreshing to see you with another expression other than your usual gloomy and bored face, Jack."

Jackson raised an eyebrow, yet he couldn't help but smile at the other boy, chuckling and sticking his hands in his pockets as he always did. "Really, Brian?" He protested, failing miserably at his attempt to sound bothered by the question. It was as if his old, rather grumpy self had been reduced to almost nothing at this point. "I mean, everyone I know at school has been telling me this. It's no big deal, you know."

"Of course it is a big deal, man!" Brian exclaimed, once again keeping his glasses from sliding down the bridge of his nose as he paced rather excitedly down the crowded hallway. "I'm not meaning to be rude or mean, but you were always down or uninspired since I've met you. But since that thing on the Museum happened, well, or at least since you've come to school today, you've been a lot happier and healthier looking."

Jackson chuckled again, this time making his lips curl in a small yet gentle smile that refused to go away. He had to admit, it was quite the radical change, yet it was ultimately fantastic for his mood; or in general, for himself as a whole. The utter boredom and lack of inspiration where long gone, replaced with the fresh sensation of a broad and active mind, coupled with newfound ambitions and goals. He suddenly smiled again, blue eyes staring out at the the school's cafeteria with no particular focus; This was surely the beginning of a new 'era' for him.

However, as he had predicted, his doings in the Museum didn't get that much recognition, at least not from anyone aged 15 and older. Some younger students from Middle School did come and congratulate him for his heroism, naming him a new 'hero' and possible new 'Overwatch' agent, yet only a handful from the freshmen and upperclassmen seemed to have even watched the news or cared about the events that occurred yesterday. Some thought he was bound to become arrogant and egotistical with all the attention, others probably catered to envy or plain ignorance and mocked him from afar. Now, Tracer's words surely made more sense. The world was sure in need of **heroes.** Or at least, it needed to have its sense of heroism repaired.

In all honesty, though, Jackson couldn't care much. He had been sterilized to mockery since 6th grade for being friends with the nerdy and supposedly awkward loner Brian Aston, and learned to cope with it rather than to fuel their fires by fighting back. Even with his accustomation, there was a certain quartet that he was always weary of. He scanned the cafeteria for the troublemakers, upperclassmen from rich families who were the walking definition of spoiled rotten and rebellious immaturity. Luckily, they were nowhere in sight, so Jackson and Brian had a safe trip to the line to get their lunch. No harassment for today, it seemed.

"So…" Brian started to rock on the balls of his feet again, waiting for the line to move already while Jackson simply stood by calmly. "Did anything else happen, after the museum? Like, did anyone call you?"

Jackson's eyebrow shot up instinctively, as if suspecting an imminent 'Did Overwatch contact you?' type of question. However, Brian wasn't his Overwatch-obsessed brother Albert, so he was probably just trying to make some small talk to keep the awkward silence away. "Uh, only some news stations, later at night, and the police wasn't so picky, I suppose. Mom and Dad kinda dealt with the whole thing, so nothing biggie." He shrugged, coughing on his hand as in an attempt to dodge the impending topic. "So yeah, just that."

"No, man, I meant, did like…" He stepped closer, cupping his hands and leaning in to whisper in his friend's ear. "Did the Overwatch contact you?"

Not a second went by and Jackson jumped back, eyes wide and staring at the other boy with sudden paranoia as if he had discovered some century-old secret that he intended to remain concealed. Brian threw his hands in the air as if someone had a gun pointed at his forehead, face quickly contorting with utter surprise and even a hint of fear, caused by his friend's rather insane look. A few more moments went by and they dropped their acts poses, noticing a couple of eyes on them. Jackson simply tucked his hands back into his pockets while Brian awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

"Sorry…" Jackson started, turning around to check how long the line was. Well, still pretty long. A sigh, and he turned back to Brian, an apologetic glint in his blue eyes. "My brother asked me that a thousand times, and, well, some of the freshmen did as well, when I arrived at school. It's just… getting a bit repetitive, you know." He made sure to word his reasons carefully,

Brian nodded, albeit a tad shaky and rosy on the cheeks as he noticed that his small exaggeration had earned him the attention of a few students. "It's okay, I understand. It must get a bit annoying." A pause, and he leaned in again. "But did they contact you or something?"

"No, they didn't. Well, one of them talked to me…" Jackson looked up towards the ceiling, an attempt to help his brain fabricate a few swerves away from the original story. "But it was just 'get to cover and be safe' stuff. I mean, why would they contact me anyway? They're disbanded, and they couldn't risk calling some random Baltimore kid, even more when the UN is on them for illegally acting against that one Act thing…"

"Yeah, the Petras Act…" Brain nodded, shrugging. "Still, it sounds like a possibility. Like, really, I'd die of envy if you ever got contacted by them. Who knows? They might be low on numbers or something, and…" The shorter boy trailed off, his attention diverting to something in the distance. Jackson raised a suspicious eyebrow, eyes trying to follow Brian's gaze… until he caught sight of a trio, the intensity of their malicious gazes seemingly boring holes on him. They laughed loudly, fingers pointing at them, and went on to do a few mocking gestures, yet Jackson was quick and turned Brian around before they could see anything.

"Idiots…" He muttered, voice quivering as he couldn't control the sheer feeling of intimidation brewing in his chest. Brian looked even more affected by their distant mockery, face frozen in an expression of worry, hands fiddling nervously. That alone was enough to send Jackson in a brief spurt of protectiveness, placing an arm around his friend's shoulder and blocking him from seeing the upperclassmen. A moment of uncertainty was spent, his brain racing to find the right words. "It's alright. They're just a bunch of losers. If anything, they'll come for me."

As the line moved and they went to grab their lunch, Jackson threw a look back, the bullies' eyes still set on him. Brandon, Paul and Ian. All upperclassmen coming from considerably rich families, the walking definition of what jocks are. He turned back around, earning another fit of exaggerated laughter to come from them. As far as he was concerned, they were all unloved morons preying on those they deemed to be 'weird' or anything remotely close to the concept of a 'social outcast' that didn't have a single popular acquaintance. While Jackson didn't quite fit in any of those, as far as he was concerned, his friendships with Brian and other less popular people branded him as a main target to them, considering many of his failed attempts to get them off Brian's back in the past.

While both Paul and Brandon kept snickering, Ian gave him an 'got my eyes on you' gesture, his face growing serious for a moment… and then he was back to laughing with his peers. Suddenly, anger boiled inside of Jack despite feeling rather frightened of what they had planned for later, and he clenched his fists, only stopping once he had to grab his lunch. He sighed, and his rage was rapidly replaced with frustration; _If only I could ever get back at them…_ Jackson mused, his head dropping some as he stared at his hands… and an idea came to mind. His gauntlet! As delusional and impossible as it may have been, since Jackson wasn't the type to solve his problems with his knuckles… yet it seemed greatly convenient to get revenge after months of mockery.

A small smile appeared on his lips as his mind worked fervently with the fires of imagination.

…

Jackson sighed tiredly as he put on his extra shirt, taking a moment to wipe off some of the water that had stayed on his neck. His mood had improved greatly since lunch, given that the jocks didn't show up to torment him during the remainder of their break, and gym class had been rather satisfying. He folded his other t-shirt, slightly damp from the match of basketball they played earlier, and placed it together with his sports clothes in his bag, noticing that the last few students were already leaving the showers. He stretched his legs, despite their burning protests, and relaxed; Nothing like some peace and quiet after a long day at school. Brian had already left, as his house was on the opposite direction of Jackson's, leaving the latter the only student still in the showers.

Finally storing everything in his backpack, Jackson stood up and slung it over his shoulder, breathing deeply as a feeling of anticipation took over him. Not for the 'beat the jocks up' idea, no. He had discarded it somewhere along his Chemistry class, knowing that it'd probably get him arrested, or even worse: Terribly beaten up. His nemesis were, after all, much taller than him and probably much stronger, due to their prominent positions in the school's Neo-Football team. However, a new inspiration seeped in: His gauntlet. Ideas sprung up like daisies during Spring in his mind during English class, with so many designs (Be them logical or utterly impractical.) having been thought over. In the end, he still had to fix the rough edges problem, and design a practical outfit for him to use and hide his identity…

Jackson was suddenly yanked off of his train of thought as he left the shower room, a hand being harshly slammed against the wall, just barely missing his face. He closed his eyes out of instinct, body contorting as if expecting an impact… but there was only laughter. Mocking, deprecating laughter. He opened one eye, still cowering some, to be met with Ian's intense brown orbs, a mad smile playing on his lips, aided by his rather unkempt black hair. Brandon and Paul were snickering, hands closed into tight fists as if ready to strike. "Hey there, **weak ass bitch!** Had fun fisting yourself in front of your little bro, eh?"

They guffawed, effectively making Jackson curl on himself as much as he could. He had his arms held close to his stomach, guarding it against any possible hits. And a punch came, hitting him straight in the sides, awarding the aggressor with a low groan of pain. "You got the cameras blind, Paul?" Asked Ian, still keeping his victim in place with his hand. Paul nodded, holding his phone up, a hacking program of sorts playing on the screen. Jackson's eyes went wide, glancing desperately at the cameras perched on each side of the room; All deactivated, from what he could see. "Good. Little fuck boy here needs a quick PSA…"

Jackson would've tried to hide his fear by countering Ian's rather stupid use of the acronym 'PSA', yet his weak chuckle became a pained whine as Ian's knee connected with his stomach, somehow bypassing his precarious arm block. Jackson felt tears surfacing, but he somehow remained defiant, closing his eyes and swallowing the lump in his throat. Ian roughly pressed the smaller boy's shoulder against the wall, applying unnecessary force to keep him from running away. "Heard you've been trying to hit on Elena, haven't you?!" Another strike with his knee, this time hitting him under the ribs. "She's my girl, understand?"

"W-what?" Jackson replied desperately, his voice failing him, eyes glistening with fear and confusion. Elena was one of his friends, a good supporter of his, if anything. Due to his actions yesterday at the incident, she had been extra happier today, and due to her talkative nature, probably talked about Jackson a lot to… Ian? _But they were never together..._ "I-I didn't hit on her! You know that!"

"Oh, you did, you dipshit!" Ian barked, pointing an accusing finger at Jackson. Brandon looked around, Ian's voice echoing in the hallway, and held his finger next to his mouth, as to tell his partner to be more silent regarding the whole situation. "She couldn't shut up about you today! About how you were 'amazing and brave'." He forced a feminine voice, eyes rolling for a moment before he paused. "You did, it didn't you? Oh boy, I'm going to fucking bash your head in…"

Ian raised his fist up, ready to strike Jackson dead on the head, but Paul cleared his throat, having finally stopped his fit of chuckles. "As much as I'd like to see Mr. 'I love fisting' get absolutely wrecked…" A pause, and he shot a rather smug look at Jackson. "He didn't hit on her. He doesn't have the balls to do it, and then again, who would even **consider** to take him seriously? Just look at him!"

Once again, the erupted in laughter, shaking Jackson's esteem severely. However, he summoned all the strength he had left in him, clenching his teeth and refusing to look at the jocks. Ian was the first to recover from their laughing fit, taking time to process the information given to him by Paul. "Yeah, I suppose you're right, dude." Ian removed his hand from the wall, prompting Jackson to leave an opening, only to clench it into a fist and strike straight at the boy's stomach. His peers feigned pained sounds, and Ian simply smiled at his handiwork, forcing Jackson to look up at him. "Mess with Elena again, and I'll make sure you and your little boyfriend's reputations are so shit that you both won't be able to leave your own houses. Understood?"

Even with all the fright, pain and humiliation that he was experiencing, he couldn't help but to doubt Ian's statement. He wasn't the brightest of the bunch, that was obvious (As far as he knew, Ian and his partners in crime had only reached senior year via their parents' money.), so such a thing would either flop or have little effect. Regardless, Brian's confidence was still at play, so he nodded, making his assailant finally release him. The younger boy pressed himself against the wall, breathing tiredly as he watched the trio walk off. They simply stared back, smiling once again, and giving him a mock salute while saying, "See you around, buck teeth!"

The painful reminder made him bring his hand to his mouth, gently touching his buck front teeth, a single tear sliding its way down his face. His arms hung loosely at his sides, his shoulders slumped forward, and his head was held low, more tears already welling at the corner of his eyes. Even if he wanted to drop to his knee and sob miserably, something inside told him that he wouldn't. Some sort of resistance. As the jocks left the hallway, he inhaled shakily yet sharply, wiping the tears off of his eyes and raising his head. He sniffled, fighting the feelings of fear and humiliation, giving more and more space to a newfound feeling of determination. It didn't feel instantaneously effective, he had to admit, but he surely felt so much **stronger. Revitalized,** even.

Forcing a stiff upper lip, Jackson pushed himself off of the wall, arms and legs trembling some from the combination of pain and emotional effort he pulled to remain motivated in the face of adversity. As much as it had hurt him, he felt… refreshed. Almost on par as to when he decided to work on his gauntlet. Certainly, he hadn't fully recovered from the experience, yet he found within himself something to withstand the jock's torment. And despite all the suffering, it felt amazing in the end.

Jackson walked down the corridor slowly, checking around him for any witnesses: Surprisingly, there were none. Granted, this part of the school was rather secluded, specially after school was over, but he still feared that someone from the staff would have seen the mess. Something inside him poked at his conscience, yearning him to go and report their abuse to the principal or some of the teachers. Jackson sighed, shrugging; It would do nothing. It was almost common knowledge that anyone with enough money and influence could dodge their way out of law's grip.

He was about to turn around the corner of the hallway, when he caught sight of the trio still hanging around in the other hall, chatting among themselves. While he would be more than glad to just take another route to the school's entrance and just avoid them altogether, his spirit of revenge flared for a moment, forcing him to stop dead on his tracks and press himself against the wall. Jackson then sidestepped till he was at the very edge of the wall, his ear just barely sticking out of the corner so he could hear whatever they were talking about.

"...So, now that we're done with that punk, can we kick that one thing we had planned off?" Paul inquired, once again using his phone's device to disable the cameras in the hallways. He brushed a hand through his undercut blonde hair, arrogantly staring at himself on his phone's camera once the hack had been done.

"Oh yeah, dude, I've been itching to get it going!" Brandon said, excitedly, jumping in place. While he wasn't particularly chubby, he was easily the stockiest of the trio, his brown hair styled after the military cuts of the modern days. "That pile of metal sure deserves what's coming to him for setting shop in our territory without siding with us…"

Jackson's eyes widened. Territory? What were they talking about? This new discovery made him move a little bit more, enough for him to see them in the corner of his eye. Ian reached for something inside his bag, pulling out what looked like three red colored bandanas, distributing them to the other two. "It sure does, guys… so, we're still crashing his - I mean, its place, right? Still the same time?"

"Yep. 11:30PM, Reverdy Road, '24/7 Convenience Shop', owned by that Omnic bastard. Not that hard to miss. It's not exactly Downtown, so it'll be easy to spot." Paul concluded, handing them small pieces of paper with, from what Jackson could assume, the information they needed. "We should get going now. School staff will suspect anything if we stick around any longer."

Ian and Brandon nodded, sharing a brief, rather specific fist bump with Paul before they walked down the hallway together, albeit more silently than before. Jackson released his breath once they were out of reach, quickly making his way over to the other halls as to avoid them. What on Earth was that?! They were planning to vandalize an Omnic's shop? They were supposedly very organized, as it seemed, and the colors on the bandanas… it may be a coincidence, but it sounded very gang-like. Despite all the implications, including the dangers of being overpowered by them or possibly arrested, Jackson had one certainty deep inside of him:

This was his chance to teach them a lesson, once and for all.

…

While his lying skills weren't the best, they could work fine with Albert. Jackson absolutely hated to lie to his brother, but it was necessary to keep his gauntlet and his projects in safety: His mother would be absolutely enraged to hear that her son was seeking to become a hero, or at least a vigilante. His father… well, being adventurous as he was, he wouldn't think much of it, but the risks that came with this new 'hobby' would surely worry him to no end. So, to work in peace in the basement, he decided to tell Albert that he'd be at Brian's; Only to sneak back in through the door leading to the house's backyard, then locking himself in his father's workshop.

Jackson worked fervently on his gauntlet, fueled both by his inspiration to become a lesser version of the legendary Doomfist, and now, with a new goal: To bring a stop to the trio's plan, and on the long run, make sure that they never bother anyone at school again. He had been working since he had arrived from school, having corrected most of the rough edges inside the hollowed Omnic's arm, and managing to stuff the innards of the weapon with softer materials plus his mother's old mittens, intended to lessen the pain of any punches he threw. While his welding was still far from good, he added extra plating to the knuckles with the help of duct tape once again, making the strikes hit a bit harder than before.

Or at least he assumed so.

Regardless, he had covered most of his improvements and perfections by the time his mother arrived, prompting him to rush his projects upstairs as quickly as he could. Nighttime with his family went smoothly, with no one suspecting of his plans and he himself having not been too affected by his encounter with the trio earlier that day. After all, he couldn't afford to feel even slightly bothered by it, not when he had a task at hand. Once everyone had gone to bed already, at roughly 10:30PM, Jackson sprung into action.

First, he needed something to wear. His gauntlet was pretty much ready, given extra plating on the forearms to act as protection against any sort of attacks in close quarters. But it wasn't wise to go out on the streets with his face exposed for all to see. After all, he'd be in big trouble if the trio knew it was him, as he didn't intend to kill them, but rather instill a lesson in their heads that they'd never forget. So, when everyone in the house was asleep, he jumped out of bed, going straight for his wardrobe.

As he browsed, he was relieved to notice that he had quite the extensive selection of clothes that could easily hide his true frame: His small period of enthusiasm for snowboarding when he was 13 left him with some equipment for the sport, including loose pants that barely fit him back then, goggles, gloves… well, he wouldn't use the jacket, for it wasn't that cold outside, and it would only lead him to suffer from overheating the second he left the house. Humming, he reached for the largest pair of snowboarding pants he owned, then his gloves, and his snowboarding goggles, which had blue reflecting lens, effectively hiding his eyes. Another hum, this one more satisfied, and his hands went instinctively for his blue hoodie, the one he had used on the day at the Museum.

He stared at it fondly, a small smile creeping on his lips. Even during his times as an uninspired teenager, Jackson couldn't help but to feel a level of pride for the he used to play _StarCraft_ almost religiously, having bought the hoodie bearing the Raynor's Raiders' insignia out of love for the franchise. Though he may stopped playing it as frequently, the hoodie remained as one of his favorite clothes, and even if it could be used to link his hero/vigilante persona to the boy at the Museum, how many people must own a Raynor's Raiders hoodie these days?

Shrugging his shoulders, he was quick to remove his pajamas and dress up as his supposed outfit, noticing that his baggy pants weren't as baggy as they were two years ago, and the gloves hugged his hands much more than they used to do back then. Thankfully, his goggles still fit perfectly on his head, completely hiding his eyes, and his hoodie provided a great cover for his hair, as he had pulled the hood over his head. Once he was all dressed, he strapped his gauntlet on, which was lying on his bed, and stared at himself on the mirror:

Well, that was… somewhat strange.

He could easily get the ' _Trashiest Hero of the Century'_ award dressed like this, if such an award even existed.

Despite his rather silly appearance, Jackson judged it as acceptable; After all, he was only a rookie, and rookie heroes usually didn't have flashy or amazing outfits, as far as he was concerned. Even if he was pretty much ready to go, he felt like something was missing. Something to hide his face… His eyes searched around his room, and he immediately went for his wardrobe again, opening it and looking at his 'oddities' cabinet, consisting of old wallets he had as a child, belts he never used, scarves that he also never touched and…

 _Oh God, no…_

It couldn't be. His mother couldn't have kept it around.

His Old West black and white bandana, used back when he played a cowboy in a school play at the age of 6. Memories flashed in his mind, and only the mere act of touching it made him cringe. Dark times they were, indeed. Sadly for him, this was his only choice. He wouldn't use any shirt of his, as the wrinkles would alert his mother, and tablecloths were out of question. They were far too big for him, unless he was going for a poncho of sorts… Yeah, he'd stick with the bandana, as ridiculous as it was.

A look back at his mirror, and he immediately glanced away. He looked even _sillier_ now. His black snowboarding pants went well with his hoodie, yet his gloves were white, and the colored visor of his goggles clashed tremendously with his hoodie and the old bandana. On top of that, his gauntlet looked completely out of place, the metallic covering shining under the faint moonlight that creeped in his room through the window. Jackson shrugged at his looks, however. As a final verdict, he could say that, at the very worse, he looked like a tryhard thug; And at the very best, he looked like something straight out of a post-apocalyptic world.

Needless to say, he went with the former.

Now that he had geared up, he looked at his gauntlet, opening and closing his hands. It certainly had a better appearance than yesterday, and his arm was much safer from the rough edges, and the insides were much less painful to have his hand in. Satisfied with the results, he picked his phone with his free hand, checking the time: 11:00PM. His eyes widened, and a sense of urgency rose in his stomach, being suddenly reminded of the raid the trio had planned. He rushed over to his desk, grabbing a small piece of paper containing the information about when they'd strike: 11:30PM, Reverdy Road, at a convenience shop owned by an Omnic. The location wasn't that far away from where he lived, though it would be a fifteen minute walk, no doubt.

He then grabbed his house keys, holding them tightly to keep them from making too much noise. While it didn't seem to be the brightest idea to leave his house through the front door to try and stop an act of vandalism and even robbery, his only other option would be jumping out of his window or using the door to the backyard; The former would certainly break his legs, and the latter was loud and creaky, so they were out of question. Jackson typed in the address on his phone's GPS, and sneaked downstairs, hesitating for a moment before unlocking the front door. A deep breath, and he opened it slowly, the hinges only protesting once. _Here I go, I guess…_

His stomach froze with both anticipation and worry, his legs carrying him unusually fast through the empty streets of his neighborhood, not a soul in sight due to how late in the night it already was. The walk to the street where the store was didn't turn out to be troublesome: He took multiple alleys as shortcuts, mostly to avoid any odd citizen wandering around from noticing the even odder teenager walking around all masked and with a makeshift gauntlet. After a couple more minutes of walking, he arrived at Reverdy Road via alleyway, sticking his head out of the dimly lit path to peek at the street.

Despite the emptiness found on the neighborhood, Reverdy Rd. seemed eerily empty for a street this wide. The light-posts provided precarious lighting, and the convenience shop stood out greatly in the darkness, only a couple of feet away from where he stood; It wasn't anything special, looking like your everyday shop, only driving home further the utter triviality displayed by the trio and all that committed crimes against the peaceful Omnics. Silence reigned supreme, save for the eventual howl of the wind, being so intense that Jackson felt like he was going deaf.

All the peace and quiet were torn apart, however, as a hover-car took appeared suddenly, taking a dangerous curve from the adjacent street and entering Reverdy Rd. at speeds way past the allowed limit. Jackson ducked as the headlights illuminated the streets, standing back up once it had passed. The vehicle stopped directly in front of the shop, three shady figures stepping out of it, sporting metallic baseball bats and walking menacingly towards the shop. One of them held a phone, and it was obvious already: They had arrived.

Jackson gulped, trying to swallow the lump of nervousness in his throat, and walked out of the alley, his gauntlet arm held at an attack angle. Once again, his stomach froze with anticipation, and he took advantage of their supposed tunnel-vision, breaking into a sudden sprint once one of the criminals smashed through the shop's window with their bat. That finally caught the attention of the delinquents, the one closer to him turning around and jumping back in surprise at the new arrival. "Hey, what are you doi-"

Before he could even complete the warning, Jackson threw himself in the air with a leap. For a split second, even with the bandana, he could see the face of Paul, contorted in a mixture of fright and surprise, before his gauntlet connected with the teenager's left cheek, the hard impact emitting a mixed sound of metal against flesh. Jackson then lost his momentum, landing safely on the sidewalk, while his opponent was knocked out cold, falling limply to the ground with a dull 'thud'.

His eyes went wide with the results, the adrenaline from his daring attack dulling the pain coming from his knuckles. The other two whipped their heads in his direction, holding their baseball bats shakily due to the unexpected arrival and assault by the mysterious newcomer. "W-what the hell?!" Asked one of them, presumably Ian, as the voice sounded way too far pitched to be Brandon. "D-did he just…"

"You asshole! You can't stop the Kings!" Ian barked suddenly, bat held in a menacing angle. Brandon tried to join in, yet he was pushed aside by his partner, deciding to hang back, confident that his friend would defeat their new opponent without breaking a sweat. Jackson froze in place as Ian approached him, holding his arms in front of his face in a precarious block against the incoming strike. The second he saw the bat being swung, however, he leaped backwards out of instinct, the tip of the weapon barely missing his face.

Ian didn't seem to be able to withstand the force of his own swing, leaving himself open for a moment. Jackson didn't hesitate: His gauntlet arm swung back, and while it was badly aimed, it landed straight on the older boy's arm, earning him a loud scream of pain as Ian stumbled back. He dropped his weapon and clutched the affected spot, whining as he retreated. "Aw, my arm! What the fuck, dude?! He broke my arm!"

Brandon shook his head in disappointment, pushing Ian back with his shoulder before advancing much more intimidatingly at Jackson. The smaller teenager gulped, once again blocking with his arms, expecting another overhead strike… one that never came. He peeked out of his block for a moment, only to see Brandon swinging his weapon sideways. Jack had little time to react as the bat struck against his gauntlet, the force of the impact somehow bypassing the plating and leaving a terrible pain on the spot it hit. The boy clenched his teeth, stumbling back as he struggled to contain a yelp of hurt.

The stocky delinquent didn't stop, however, not halting his advance as he prepared for another swing. Jackson groaned, the adrenaline finally managing to dull his discomfort some as he continued to retreat. Brandon swung again, yet this time Jackson was once again guided by his instincts: He ducked as low as he could, nearly losing his balance, but effectively dodging the attack. Brandon's eyebrows shot up in surprise, only to furrow immediately after, as Jackson threw a desperate punch against his knee. He recoiled, seething angrily through his teeth. Jack then stood up shakily, launching another punch towards Brandon, this one hitting him dead in the stomach. A groan escaped his throat, and the giant started to retreat, struggling to fight back.

Fueled by his adrenaline, Jackson became bold, walking with confidence towards his opponent. In a desperate effort to save himself, Brandon swung horizontally again, at the same time as Jack threw a punch directed to his face: They both exchanged blows, with Brandon's bat delivering a stinging pain to Jack's upper arm, while the inexperienced jab from the younger teenager hit him under the chin. They both recoiled, yet the smaller boy remained on his feet, albeit in pain, while the taller one fell like a ragdoll on his back, joining Paul in his unconscious state.

Clutching his arm with his gauntlet, Jackson groaned again, the pain managing to end his adrenaline rush for good. He was left panting, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, shoulders slumped forward as he rested his hands on his knees. A few whines came, and he looked back up, noticing that Ian still stood, yet was having trouble recovering from the punch he took to the arm. "G-guys?" Ian asked, shakily, eyes glancing with desperation at his knocked out comrades. "C-C'mon, it's a 3 vs 1… the Baltimore Kings never lose, right?"

Jackson froze. The _Baltimore Kings?!_ They were the biggest gang - hell, they were the equivalent of a mafia at this point - in the city, powerful enough to stand up to the police. This was more than enough for Ian to regain part of his courage, standing back up and shakily raising his bat over his head once again. His attack was weak, however, and came slow enough for Jackson to strike against the weapon, the gauntlet's strength throwing it several feet into the air. Ian stared hopelessly as he was disarmed, an unmanly yelp coming from his throat. "Y-you little fu-"

He was stopped mid-sentence as Jackson unloaded all of his anger in one powerful punch to the face, miraculously throwing Ian away from him. The blow was strong enough to send the now barely conscious criminal sliding against the sidewalk before coming to a halt, moaning and speaking gibberish.

Silence fell like a hammer, and Jackson stared wide eyed at the verdict of the battle, wincing as both his arms and his knuckles stung with sharp, persistent pain. Even if he had been hurt, he couldn't help but to feel absurdly lucky. He somehow managed to defeat three teenagers older and taller than him, with just a makeshift weapon and little knowledge on how to punch properly. Granted, his opponents weren't professional fighters, but it was still an accomplishment.

"Oh, sir…" Came a robotic voice, prompting Jason to whip his head to the right. He caught sight of the shop's owner, an Omnic dressed in a cashier apron, who held their hands together in a gesture of utter gratitude. They briefly glanced at the damaged window, but their focus was directed towards the masked figure that saved his shop. "I… thank you. I cannot find a way to express my appreciation for what you did."

Jackson couldn't help but to feel his face heat up, awkwardly placing his hands behind his back as he tried to find something to say, and a way to conceal his actual voice. "Uh, no problem, friend." He said, forcing a deeper tone. "Call the police and… stay safe." An awkward salute, and he walked off, eventually breaking into a sprint, all while huffing and groaning in pain. While he was fearful for his life - or at least, the safety of his persona - for messing with the Kings, there was a different feeling in his chest. One of accomplishment, of sympathy, of inspiration.

Finally, he felt like a true **hero.**

…

Unbeknownst to Jackson, a lone figure had watched the scene from atop the rooftop of a small building across the street, silent and utterly concealed. It seemed impatient, or at least displeased, as it was beaten to the chase for the crime scene. As the situation had been solved, by that odd kid with the gauntlet, it simply stood up, its glaring red visor following the young savior until he turned into an alleyway, disappearing from view just as the police hover-cars closed in the location, arresting the barely conscious delinquents and questioning the owner of the shop for the victor of the small battle.

It grunted, the glare of its visor intensifying for a brief moment before it too disappeared, jumping down from the rooftop and landing somewhere down the nearby alleyways.

Despite its disappointment and frustration, it was sure of one thing: There was fresh blood in the scene…

…

 **Well, that's a wrap. Just to clarify, 'neo-football' and 'hover-cars' are just terms used to help characterize the futuristic universe of Overwatch. After all, I'm sure it's set a couple of decades in the future.**

 **Regardless, please, do leave a review. It helps me pinpoint what I need to maintain or improve to provide you guys with quality content. In the end, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

 **-SteelyThePally**


	3. Discoveries

**Hello everyone! Welcome to a new chapter of Overwatch: Rise of the Successor! First off, allow me to apologize for the huge delay. The usual happened: Sickness, lack of inspiration, esteem problems, school came back. Anyways, what's important is that I'm back!**

 **Now, I'll answer some of your questions. A lot of you have said that the hoodie kid's name is Brian, instead of Jackson, and his little brother's is Chris instead of Albert. To clear things up, I simply came up with these names because I couldn't find any reliable source, and even the Wiki says that Brian's little brother is named Timmy instead of Chris. So before I just jump to conclusions, I'll wait for Blizzard's confirmation. I apologize to all that feel upset about this, but there isn't exactly a canon name for them. Be assured, though, that once we get confirmation, I'll edit the names properly!**

 **Secondly, comes shipping. Some of you requested me to ship him with Tracer or Alejandra. I apologize to all who feel sad about this, but I'd rather not ship Tracer with Jackson/Brian. Their age gap is too big for my comfort (15-26), and it makes me go just… no. As for Alejandra, well I don't see how she'd come in, though it sounds more comfortable for me.**

 **Well, there's that. Hope you all enjoy the chapter!**

 **...**

Jackson grinned to himself as his hands worked fervently on the device before him; Greased, scratched and even burned, yet still vigorous in their task. Sometimes, he had to admit that, even if it could be unbearably difficult or just plainly frustrating, engineering (Or tinkering, if he were to be modest.) made him feel like a blacksmith of sorts. Specially when he managed to do something correctly; And much to his surprise, he was on a streak of luck for the past couple of days. It felt as if everything was going his way.

A few days had passed since he took down the trio that had tormented him and Brian since they started High School. They had been arrested, and even if he didn't like to jump to conclusions, the lack of action on behalf of their parents (Who could easily bail them as they were prominent figures in major corporations.) did sound a bit suspicious, especially after he discovered their involvement with Baltimore's fearsome mafia, the Kings. Nonetheless, Jackson was rather impressed by how the public reacted to his actions: Most of the people in the city sounded plenty grateful despite him defending an Omnic, given that he had managed to defeat members of a gang thought to be unbeatable even by the law, whereas the police was surprisingly vague when mentioning the masked stranger with the gauntlet.

On the other hand, however, the inspiration coming from that small victory was more than enough fuel for his creative mind, and the boy wasted no time in transforming his motivation in hard work. He researched multiple designs and mechanisms, mostly pistons and pneumatic machinery, and even borrowed a few books from the city library on advanced robotics and engineering to aid in his quest for improvements. Video-games played a big role in the design choice, as expected of a teenager, and Jackson stuck to the concept of a 'power fist': A gauntlet which propelled a steel ram forward when the user threw a punch, making the strikes hit harder and even deadly.

Granted, Jackson was still a teenager, and one with time limitations at that. Not only had he had to deal with managing his time in the basement throughout the afternoons and nights, but he also suffered from the bruises he obtained when fighting Ian and his peers. Hiding them was no problem, as he constantly wore long sleeved clothing, yet coping with the pain when moving his arms was almost unbearable, even if the darkened spots had healed greatly.

Jackson shook his head suddenly, yanking his hand out of the way as the blue flames from the welding torch he held nearly caught his finger. He groaned at himself, lifting his father's old and rusting welding helmet to take a breather. "C'mon, almost there…" The boy muttered, throwing the helmet back down as he continued to mend the last parts of his creation. It wasn't easy, but after painstakingly long days of engineering, testing, planning and researching, he was almost there. _Just a few more welds and the ram's support will be fixated on the fi-_

Before he could even finish his thoughts, the door to the basement slammed open, making him jump back and let out an unmanly shriek of surprise. The welding tool slipped out of his grasp, falling to the ground together with a couple of unused scraps of metal, their clanking assaulting his ears for a moment. Desperation took over his actions, and Jackson threw the helmet off as quickly as he could, the gloves in his hands soon following as he dusted his shirt, slightly blackened by the labor involved in his crafting.

"Bro?" A soft voice came from above, obviously belonging to Albert. Jackson wasn't relieved by that, however, and hurried for his gauntlet. He hissed as his hand made contact with the still red hot area, the weapon joining the other tools on the floor with a duller 'clank'. Albert's footsteps were heard, and he came into view in the blink of an eye. "What are you doing with dad's stuf-"

The boy interrupted himself instantaneously as his curious eyes landed on the crudely-designed yet rather intricate gauntlet laying on the floor. There was no hesitation: Albert came running down the remainder of the stairs at lightning speed, his face brightening at the sight. Jackson tried to awkwardly kick his creation under the table, yet it was already seen, and his brother simply reached down for it, luckily avoiding the overheated spots as he inspected it. "Bro! This is so cool! I knew it!" He pointed a finger at the taller boy, a grin playing on his lips. "You **did** listen to what Tracer told you!"

"What?!" Jackson exclaimed, trying to feign indignation, yet to no avail. "I didn't- I don't- That's not- Gah!" He groaned, burying his face in his hands for a moment. "That's not what you-"

"Of course it is, Jack!" Albert cut him off, holding the gauntlet in one hand with some difficulty as it was heavier now that the ram had been added in. "Look at this! You're becoming the next Doomfist! Does it work?" The little boy inspected his brother for a moment, noticing the bruises on his arms. "Aw man, you even got battle scars! Wait, you…" A pause, and somehow his face got even brighter than before with sheer enthusiasm. "You were that guy on the news! The one who beat those Kings gangsters!"

"Okay, okay, okay, I kind of am **that** guy, alright?" Jackson finally blurted out, holding his hands in front of him as to stop his brother's fit of excitement. There was no use in denying it, after all. Since when was Albert so quick at linking the dots, though? "I just… decided to mess around with the basement, and Dad happened to have a lot of spare stuff… so, well, here it is, I guess."

"So awesome!" Albert pumped his fist in the air, still struggling to hold the gauntlet with his other arm. "I can't believe my big bro is a hero!" He carefully set the weapon on the table, rushing towards Jackson and wrapping his small arms around him in a tight hug. Jackson didn't recoil, much to his little brother's surprise, but rather allowed a warm smile to form on his lips as he ruffled the other's hair playfully. "I knew that you listened to Tracer." He wiggled himself out of Jack's grasp, beaming up at him. "So, when are you going to save the world? Join the Overwatch? Kick evil's butt with Tracer and Winston and Reinhardt and Mer-"

Jackson held his hand up finally, somehow effectively managing to get his brother to pull the brakes. As much as he loved the little guy, he did wish that, at certain moments, he had some sort of _on/off_ button. Silence settled for a moment, and he crouched to collect the scattered tools, arranging them on the table again as his mind whirred for a way to explain everything to his little brother. In all honesty, Jackson was just relieved that it wasn't his _mother_ who found out about his secret ambitions. "Just… let me explain, okay?"

Albert nodded rapidly, holding his hands together and rocking on the balls of his feet, his grin still plastered to his face. Jackson took a deep breath, and stretched his arms out, as if to buy time to come up with a way to properly describe to his brother what happened. "I don't know what really happened in me, but… I guess the whole thing in the Museum got me inspired, you know?" He pointed to the gauntlet, and then to all the spare parts piled up in crates inside the basement. "And, well, we have all this stuff, and I kind took after the idea of Doomfist… well, I didn't quite want to copy him, as I can't level skyscrapers, but you get the idea. So, here I, kind of am."

 _Why can't I explain things like a normal person..._

"You should become the next Doomfist, bro!" The little boy enthused, pumping his fist in the air again. He then ran around his brother, grabbing the weapon with little care as the heated metal had cooled down some. "So, does it work?"

"Sort of." Said Jackson, through his gritted teeth as he snatched the gauntlet back and placed it on the table. His eyes ran over the newly added component, noticing that the welded part was cooling off. A sigh escaped his mouth, and he collected the welding helmet and the gloves, putting them back on as Albert watched him with mouth-gaping awe. Even if he was a bit frustrated at his progress being halted in the last stretch, Jack could never bring himself to be fully angry at his brother, as impossibly energetic as he may be, given by how he was already smiling. "Just let me complete it, and I'll show it to you."

Only a mere moment went by, with Jackson only having to alert his brother to not stare directly at the flames as he finished connecting the ram's support to the top part of the fist. He then lifted the helmet once he had finished his work, a sigh of relief leaving his mouth as he stared down at the gauntlet, joy and accomplishment flooding his senses. Then again, it wasn't the prettiest thing ever: It was still crude, as one of the supports were lower than the others, yet he had to make do with what his father's part supply had to offer. The ram itself was an unused block of metal, pressed against the base of the piston as it wasn't triggered; As for the mechanism itself, it was formed by a small set of wires connecting to both the piston and a button located at the fist's palm. He was lucky that the instrument still had its systems, and was surprisingly adaptable to the wires, despite the actual programming and the fixation of the ram taking way longer than he expected.

Done inspecting it, Jackson held the weapon up, finally acknowledging the increase in weight as it was considerably harder to lift. Albert let out a 'wow', his eyes widening at his big brother's creation. "Well, I guess it's done." His little brother started to jump in place as Jack put the gauntlet on his right hand, moving and flexing his fingers some to adjust them properly. His thumb searched briefly for the activation mechanism of the device, a small button planted on the top part of his middle finger, requiring some effort to push it so that it wouldn't trigger the ram at the lightest of touches.

"C'mon, bro! Try it out!" Albert urged, pumping his small fists in the air before throwing a few mock punches himself, his face contorting with a childish expression of determination.

Jackson took a moment before attending to his brother's request, looking around the room for a suitable target. As much as he cared for the integrity of his house… the wall did seem like a good candidate. He walked up to the more easily accessible one, seeing that most of the room was littered with boxes and piles of spare parts, and rose his fist, prompting Albert to let out an 'ooh' of anticipation. His stomach froze with nervousness and he closed his eyes, finally throwing the punch, his thumb pressing down hard on the button. A loud impact was heard, the piston's sound being muffled by it, and Jackson's arm came to a full stop, prompting him to jump back with a gasp, eyes shot wide open as he gazed at what the results:

He had managed to punch out a chunk of cement from the wall. The dislodged piece fell hard on the floor, shattering into smaller pieces, leaving behind a head-sized dent on the wall.

Jackson gulped. Albert let out a squeak of mixed surprise and awe.

Perhaps he had set the ram speed configurations a _bit_ too high.

"Wow!" He exclaimed, jumping in place despite the destruction before his eyes. "That was so cool! You're like, the new Doomfist, up and coming!"

Jackson clenched his teeth, desperation washing over him as he crouched next to the pieces of cement on the floor. His eyes flicked back and forth between the damaged wall and the decimated structure, heart beating like a wardrum in his chest. _What is Mom going to do to me?! What is_ _ **Dad**_ _going to do to me?! Oh my God, Oh my God…_ His mind raced with the infinite possibilities, yet Albert wasn't done, musing out loud about a myriad of Doomfist 'ideas' and 'similar alter-egos', creating an ambiance of pure chaos for him. He stood up, tuning his brother out, and touched the hole, whipping his head in every direction to look for something to cover it up.

Albert continued to drone on, carelessly devising plans and names and even battles against the so-called evils of the world, not even minding the older boy as he hurried around the room, hauling boxes and crates across the room and precariously piling them next to the damaged wall. He only stopped once the hole had been covered up, albeit not very discreetly, but it'd do. Jackson then kicked the pieces of broken cement under the table, letting out a sigh of relief as the problem had been solved… partially, at least.

"...So when are you going to kick bad guy butt full-time?" Albert asked right when Jackson started to pay attention to him again, earning a confused look from his older brother.

"What do you mean?" Jackson threw the question back, raising an inquisitive eyebrow in his direction.

"I mean, well, heroes don't exactly take breaks, you know." He snapped his fingers, trying to think of better wording to convey his point. "Like, I know you were working on your gauntlet and all, and there was school, but, I dunno, heroes gotta always be there for the people, right?"

Jackson opened his mouth, believing to have the answer right away, yet nothing came: His brother's question hit him like a warhammer, foiling all and any argument he had to come back. Albert was right. He had gone and decided to be a hero, yet so far he has only saved a single Omnic, and has remained in the dark for a whole week. Since Ian and his peers had been defeated, the Baltimore Kings had become more aggressive, carrying out lightning robberies and sparking gang wars whenever they could. The city wasn't exactly in a state of anarchy, yet the rise in criminality was worrying for all the citizens, seeing that the police could barely hold their onslaught back. His head lowered some, a look of guilt in his blue eyes.

"O-of course, I'm not saying you need to go and take down the Kings alone, but now that I know that you're the gauntlet guy who saved the robot's shop, I just thought that, you know, maybe you could, well, help the city?" Albert's eyes shined with expectation, the small boy holding both his hands in front of him as if pledging Jackson to let him get more cookies from the house's kitchen. "You got this super cool gauntlet, and, well, you defeated three guys alone!" Suddenly, he was filled with his youthful energy again, pumping his fist in the air. "Now that you've added the ram thingy, I'm sure you could kick their butts even better than before! As Tracer said, 'The world could always use more heroes'! This could be your chance!"

Despite the guilt weighing down on his conscience, Jackson couldn't hold back the small smile forming on his lips. Surely, he had failed to help the city in a time of need, but not all was lost. There was still a chance. It wouldn't be easy to get over the feelings, certainly, but Jack understood that while his negligence lead to a rise in the city's violence, he had the resources and the power to fix the situation. "Yeah… I'm sure it is."

"Ah, bro, don't look so down!" Albert ran to his side, patting the taller boy on the back. "Not every hero has a smooth start. Like, look at that reaaaaally old hero, from the comic books that dad and our grandad used to read. What was his name again…" Another pause, and another fit of snapping fingers. "Spider-Man! Yeah, the guy in the red and blue suit which crawled walls and shot webs. He thought he could use his powers to make money, but that made his uncle die!" Jackson's eyes shot wide with terror, and Albert recoiled, noticing how terribly his example had backfired. "W-w-well, I mean, I just wanted to say that heroes don't have easy starts and have to fix some stuff at the beginning."

"Oh, good, I get it." Jackson replied, nodding and breathing in relief. He closed his eyes and stretched his arms, hearing the joints 'pop' some, then going to crack his knuckles. Once he was done relaxing, he glanced at Albert, a more comfortable look in his eyes. "Well, buddy, thanks for the advice. I think I'm ready to take on the responsibilities now. But now that you know..." He lowered his voice tone some, looking around as if someone was eavesdropping on them. "Just don't tell Mom, right? Or Dad. They'll have my hide if they find out."

"You know you can trust me, bro!" Enthused the small boy, fist-bumping his brother. He let out a fit of giggles, and Jackson chuckled. "My brother's gonna be a real hero now!"

…

Blatant lies.

Jackson **wasn't** ready for the responsibilities.

Or at least he thought so.

It was already 11:30PM. Jackson was sitting on his bed, arms hugging his legs as he lightly rocked back and forth, eyes staring blankly at his wardrobe. Once again, guilt had come to haunt him. After his brother had reminded him of Baltimore's skyrocketing crime rates since the mysterious gauntlet-wielding vigilante took down three members of the Kings, he spent a good part of the night searching about the facts. Indeed, the situation was miserable. The police could do even less than they already tried to keep the gangsters at bay, and it was estimated that there were at least 10 homicides during the last week, and numerous robberies.

Just the mere thought of deaths happening made him shiver some. Baltimore wasn't the safest city in the world, as the Kings' presence was solid since the disbanding of Overwatch, but the events of the last couple of days were majorly concerning. And in a way, it could all be blamed on him. He was no one man army or hero, though he **did** have the power to stop at least a good amount of the incidents… which he didn't, for he was focusing in his own self. _What sort of half-assed hero am I to let all this happen… I should've done something…_

Before yet another wave of guilt could wash over him, a part of him asked him to stop. Albert's words played in his mind once more. _**"Not every hero has a smooth start."**_ As hard as it was to accept it, he couldn't throw all the blame on himself. And even then, the situation wasn't all but lost; He could still 'redeem' himself. He could still learn from his negligence. Jackson was still young, but if he sought the path of a hero, he'd have to take in the responsibilities that came with being one. And quitting because of a mistake wasn't what heroes did, as far as he was concerned. If he was to call himself a hero, then he wouldn't allow such mere things to drag him down.

Even with all the determination, he couldn't help but feel the weight being dropped on his shoulders. It wasn't the easiest decision, without a doubt. He was a 15 year old teenager, taking the mantle of a legendary lineage of both a hero and a villain, fueled by the fires of inspiration to go and do something worthwhile with his life; Even if said something was extremely dangerous. Needless to say, it was a ton of matters to take into his own hands, but something drove him on. Despite the doubt and the hesitation and the fears raining down on him, he felt an urge, a force moving him forward. What it was, he couldn't know, but it made him feel even more alive.

Shakily getting out of bed, his hands curled into fists as he swallowed the lump in his throat, fighting back the negative feelings welling up inside of him. There was no time to mull about spilt milk. Not when he had even more resources to swing back at the Kings. Using every ounce of his mental fortitude to instill a more confident mindset, he opened the curtains on his window some, peering out at the moonlit Baltimore skyline some. He heaved a deep breath, focusing his mind on what to do at the moment.

Perhaps deciding what course of action to take at first would be key. He whipped his head to the back, his computer coming into view. Jackson was quick to sit down and boot it up, the gears of his mind whirring with thought as to what exactly search on the internet… the BPD website! They always have important information and warnings for civilians, so he should find something useful there. As soon as the computer had booted up, he quickly accessed the browser, using the search engine to access the city's police department's site.

Not a minute into searching and he found an announcement: 'Areas and Buildings to Avoid/Be Wary Of'. An article detailing several spots in the city rumored to house Kings' hideouts or be high activity regions, so the citizens would steer away from them. His brows furrowed as he scrolled through the locations, most being far too shady for him to even consider. However, one of them caught his eye. A warehouse near the city's docks, from the looks of it. Compared to the other options, this one appeared to be the 'easier' way to go.

That is, if **easy** was even an option when it came to raiding gang hideouts.

Without thinking much on it, he stood up again, taking one last look at the screen to type the address on his phone. The GPS quickly projected a trajectory… and well, it was pretty far away from his house. Far enough for him to have to grab public transport to actually reach it in time. Humming as he weighed his options, his face brightened some as an idea came to mind. He grabbed his school backpack, removing all of his material and replacing it with his 'gear': His bandana, his goggles, and lastly, his gauntlet. It barely fit, though it was nothing that a few adjustments wouldn't fix.

Next, he dressed up in the same clothes he wore when he had set out to save the Omnic's shop, a pang of pride washing him as the memories of his small achievement played in his head. Jackson had no idea if people would think of him as the vigilante on the streets because of the attire… but the possibilities sounded pretty thin. Finally, he snatched his keys from the desk and grabbed some money from his wallet - enough to pay him a bus ride to the warehouse and back - , shoving them in his pockets.

Jackson breathed deeply, a familiar feeling of both fear and exhilaration growing inside of him. He walked towards the door, but there was a moment of hesitation; After all, he was going to try and 'make a difference' through the means of _**infiltrating a gang hideout.**_ Not exactly the easiest task, but his moral compass saw it as fitting in order to make him feel better about himself, as borderline suicidal as the idea was. Even then, it wasn't like he was completely helpless, for he had his upgraded gauntlet, capable of punching small holes in walls, and, well, his rather flimsy-but-still-holding-up-fine confidence.

Opening the bedroom's door with care to not wake up anyone in his house, he set out on this new, self-imposed adventure.

…

Jackson questioned himself as he held onto one of the bus' many handles, his body swaying some as it took a sharp turn: How much of a trashy hero did one have to be to use public transport? All the heroes that he had seen or read about, including the agents of the late Overwatch, owned some sort of vehicle or possessed powers and gadgets that made travelling a cakewalk. But him? The half-assed successor of Doomfist, riding a **bus** to purge evil. He sighed. Well, perhaps this was one of the cons of being a trashy hero.

Much to his luck, the bus arrived quite quickly at the stop, and it was sparsely populated: A couple at the front, a father with his child next to him, and a tired office employee in the back, fast asleep despite the rocky trip. Jackson was already on his feet, noticing that his stop was closeby, and peered around carefully, in search of suspicious behavior. Seeing that a good half of the bus drivers were Omnics, busses often became targets of vandalism or robberies, especially this late in the night. Thankfully, none of the citizens around him looked shady or ready to pull out a weapon, so he could be at ease for now.

As it drew closer and closer to the stop, Jackson's eyes wandered some, abandoning the dimly lit streets of Baltimore's harbor area, and focusing on the father and the girl next to him. The adult's gaze met his, and he smiled gently, nodding his head as if to wish him a good evening, and Jackson awkwardly did the same. The child, a girl of blonde hair styled in childish ponytails, let her mouth fall agape as she looked at the older boy, squeezing her father's hand some. Panic started to well up in Jack's chest, for he guessed she had identified him through his hoodie.

Much to his relief, Lady Luck was nicer to him today, and the bus came to a sudden halt, almost robbing the pair of their balance. He took advantage of that, quickly leaving the vehicle as soon as the doors slid open, hands trembling with tension.

Though he feared for the safety of his identity, curiosity took over him, and he glanced over his shoulder. His blue eyes met with the girl's brown orbs, and they seemed to shine with enthusiasm as she gleefully threw a light punch in the air, nodding her head before the doors closed and the bus was moving again. Jackson gulped. Was he that careless? He did remember having every piece of his trashy attire on when he helped the Omnic's shop, and it would be impossible for someone to guess his alter-ego just through his hoodie…

He shook his head, the concerns flooding his mind being suppressed some. Now was not the time to ponder about a child's assimilation capabilities, and rather focus on the task at hand. Just as he focused on the environment around him, tension crashed down like a hammer. Silence reigned supreme, only broken by the odd hum of a distant engine and the muffled sounds of the factories, and no soul could be spotted. With tension came fear, and he quickly set to finding the warehouse, wanting out of the street's terrifying atmosphere as soon as possible.

While it wasn't the wisest thing to do in a deserted and dark street at midnight, he took out his phone, using once again the GPS for guidance. The warehouse he sought wasn't far away, a mere five minute walk that felt like a century-long march considering how eerie the air in this district was. His legs felt like they were made out of lead and his hands shook some once he had arrived by the building's entrance, eyes scouring over it for possible entries. He realized that the main door was out of question, so he reluctantly delved into a neighboring alley, his body becoming shrouded in darkness.

Not a second in the alley and he noticed a service access door, lightly lit by a yellow light, and stopped immediately. Well, there was his way in. Jackson fought against the nervousness as he crouched and set his bag down, taking out all of its contents and putting them on immediately. First, the bandana, the gloves, then the goggles, next came the hood, and finally, the gauntlet. He flexed his fingers in it to get comfortable, and just to make sure, he pressed the ram button a few times, satisfied to see that his mechanism still worked, albeit a bit crudely.

Now that he was geared up, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, glancing at the door behind the goggles. A wave of hesitation washed over him, yet something made him press on, realizing that it was futile to turn back now. He breathed deeply, approaching the door and opening it slowly. Its hinges, obviously aged, protested, the creaking sounds echoing through the large interior eerily. Jackson instinctively ducked his head, crouching and moving in fast, only turning back to close the door carefully.

As dark as the warehouse was, he could still make out the silhouettes of the long abandoned piles of crates and other wares, and even the Carrier-Omnics that had fallen into disuse. The air stank of old things, and just from the small slivers of moonlight that creeped in, he could see tiny particles of dust floating in the air, as if not a single soul had walked in here for centuries. Jackson's skin crawled: If he had thought that the silence outside was terrifying enough, inside it was much more prominent, becoming almost deafening.

Once again, he inhaled deeply, summoning some more courage to press on. He resorted to walk straight up, as crouching tired his legs, and no one was around to detect him. His eyes squinted some, trying to detect something in the penumbra, feet carrying him carefully through the aisles as to not bump into anything. Sadly for him, he did; Or rather, his foot got stuck into something, making him release a gasp as he was robbed of his balance, falling flat on his side.

His heart pounded fiercely in his chest at the fright, yet, aside from the pain, he hadn't landed on anything noisy. Jackson grunted, moving his feet around some in a failed attempt to free it from whatever it had gotten stuck in. Desperation started to grow as he budged his leg, yet nothing fruitful came of it. His eyes shot wide, frantically glancing around, only stopping as he had noticed what might have stuck his foot. Some sort of fissure in the ground. His panicking ceased some, and he puffed, now taking a careful look at the supposed crack in the ground.

Jackson's eyebrows raised in surprise as he identified what it was. A trap door! As confusing as the discovery was, he tried to make sense out of the fissure, hands trying to reach for some sort of button around, along with his eyes. The darkness made it certainly hard, yet he managed to spot a small button sitting by the corners of the large metallic door. He reached for it with his gauntlet arm, sticking his tongue out as it was just a bit out of his reach, only managing to press the button due to the fist's bulkier fingers.

A gasp left his throat again as the doors slid open, producing minimal noise yet allowing a strong orange light to flood part of the aisle he was in. There wasn't much to be seen from this angle, aside from the flight of stairs certainly leading somewhere more interesting. His leg was free, however, and he was left staring in awe at the secret passage that had just been revealed. Real clever of the Kings, he had to admit. An abandoned warehouse with a secret underground hideout was the perfect spot to set up a small base of operations.

Or so he thought.

Shaking most of the concerns out of his mind, he threw himself down onto the stairs, cringing some as his landing created quite a lot of noise. He stood up, glancing at the grey corridor that stretched for a short distance before making a small turn to the left, decorated with multiple orange wall lights. Jackson checked his equipment for a moment - his gauntlet was still firmly around his right hand, and none of his clothing had been torn by the door - before moving on, slow steps taken with extreme caution.

Just as he was reaching the tight turn made by the corridor, he could hear some distant conversation, prompting him to freeze for a second before pressing himself against the wall.

"...was that the trap door opening?" Asked one voice, gruff yet confused.

"Maybe? That old damned thing needs some repairs, but the boss says we don't gotta 'waste our funds' on it." Another answered, sounding more annoyed as he crudely imitated the supposed 'boss's voice. "Go close it already."

"What?! Me? Why is it always me?" The gruff one questioned, if not a bit scared, from what Jackson could tell. "I always get the scariest jobs, man-"

"You're scared?" The other replied, laughing. A punch was heard, and a quick 'ow' followed. "C'mon, man. It's nothing. Just the door."

"Ugh…" The deeper voice groaned, his tone failing him some. "Alright, alright… we're Kings after all…"

Despite the rather interesting exchange between the two (Supposed) guards, footsteps soon came within his earshot, and he tensed up. One of them was **actually** coming for him. Or the door, at least. Anyways, he prepared his gauntlet, closing his hand into a fist and pressing his back even more against the wall. The footsteps grew louder and louder. His heart beat faster and faster. A drip of sweat came down his face. Even time seemed to slow down as tension rose within him.

And then it came.

Lead by instinct, Jackson threw himself out of cover, his arm being wildly throw forward. All he could see was the guard's frightful expression as the gauntlet connected to his left cheek, the boy's finger pressing the button just in time. The ram was propelled forward as intended, and the result was astounding: The intensity of the punch knocked the man out cold, his body crashing against the wall before limply falling to the floor. Jackson's eyes went wide. What on Earth was that ram made of?!

"Carl? Carl, what was that sound?" The supposedly remaining guard questioned, his footsteps too growing closer to Jackson's position. "Dammit, Carl! Now's not the time to pull revenge pranks on me!"

Jackson runned towards the other corner, as the corridor seemed to take yet another turn, and waited. The guard was coming straight for him, albeit at a faster pace than the other. He thought of repeating the same process as before, though he'd aim for an uppercut this time.

However, the second the other guard showed up, he panicked. The man wielded a powerful-looking assault rifle, dressed in rather sophisticated clothes with the Kings' red colors. They exchanged looks for a moment, and both of them sprung into action. Jackson's arm swung in an uppercut motion, yet the man went for a rifle bash. Much to the boy's luck, his fist connected with his opponent's chin first, though the butt of his rifle hit him straight in the shoulder. Jackson let out a pained grunt as the man was lifted into the air for a split second, only to join his partner in the ground.

Once the adrenaline died out, Jackson couldn't help but lower himself some, the pain emanating from the hit spot on his shoulder being a bit too much to bear. That'd leave a bruise. A nasty one. He made a mental note to be more careful depending on what else this hideout had to offer, yet silence had settled again, no other King having been alerted of the small skirmish had between the intruder and two guards. Even with all the pain, Jack took a moment to breathe in. He had just managed to punch out two guards. Granted, it was because of his gauntlet's ridiculous power, but it was still an impressive feat.

Ignoring the awful ache that lessened frustratingly slow in his shoulder, he carried on, moving slowly to avoid any further detection. The corridor continued to make tight turns left and right, enough to leave him slightly disoriented. Jackson had to admit that, even if this was a Kings' lair, it was pretty well done. The walls eventually became decorated with red stripes, as a way to signal the gang's ownership of the place, and they subtly ended at a door at the end of the corridor. Jackson stopped dead on his tracks. That certainly lead to a more populated part of the hideout. A lump formed in his throat, yet he pressed on, crouching some to prevent any of the other gangsters from noticing him from the small windows on the door.

Once he had walked up to the door, he stood up some, his eyes peering out at the scene behind the door. It was… intimidating, so to say. The guards up front were _nothing_ compared to what they had in there. Guns, bullet proof vests, even custom-made suits, crates filled with military-grade equipment… almost a whole panoply of war. Something to rival even the city's SWAT teams. Hell, it was enough to go toe to toe with Army, if he were to exaggerate.

He lowered himself, eyes wide with terror as realization struck him like a hammer. Just what did he get himself into? Beating up young adults with baseball bats was easy enough, but _**that**_ _?_ That was pure insanity. There was no way he was going to get past this many gangsters. Not without becoming a human swiss cheese. God forbid. The mere thought made him shiver.

He wanted to get up and run away, but something kept him planted in place. That same feeling of determination and otherworldly motivation that made him overcome his guilt (At least partially.) and leave his house in this self-imposed quest. Something that made him stay and not leave before the job was done. He inhaled shakily, and peeped back into the room. Well… maybe they weren't so well trained? They were only gangsters, and none of them seemed to be alert. If he were to open the door slowly, and creep behind the containers on the righ-

Before he could even complete his thoughts, one of the air ventilation grates fell flat from the ceiling, landing rather comically on the head of a passing guard. The man stumbled some, holding his head, and Jackson felt the urge to laugh… until three small rockets emerged from the air vent, exploding into the ground and throwing the gangster and some of his allies away in a ball of smoke and fire. Jackson himself recoiled, covering his ears because of how loud the explosion was, and felt the doors quake with the explosion. _What the hell was that?!_

Almost as if on cue to answer his question, a figure dropped from the vent, an advanced rifle in hands. He landed (Or Jackson assumed it was a he, though the build confirmed his doubts.) with impossible grace, apparently not bothered by the height of the fall. Not a second went by and the mysterious newcomer sprung into action, aiming his rifle at a poor stunned gangster. A single blue-colored blast came out of it, and the bandit was down, his other friends following as the man unloaded precise bursts on whoever dared to aim their own weapon at him.

That same sensation of determination surged inside of Jackson again, and out of pure adrenaline, he decided to make his entrance among the chaos, opening the door abruptly. The man that had just joined the scene seemed to still be busy with the other criminals, seeing that he fearlessly advanced on the Kings cowering behind the ammo boxes. Jackson looked around, his ears mercilessly assaulted by the sounds of the vigilante's rifle and his eyes tortured by the show of red and orange caused by the explosion.

Not daring to go and 'join' the newcomer, Jackson whipped his head to the side, spotting a rather cowardly King shakily pointing his own rifle at the man gunning down his partners. The boy was quick: He ran up to the gangster, who only acknowledged his presence when it was too late. Fear filled Jackson's heart as he saw the muzzle of the gun being quickly pointed at him, but Lady Luck seemed to be extra pleased with him today, and his punch connected first. The King's body became a ragdoll, the gun landing on his chest without firing a round. _God, this is getting too dangerous already…_

"N-n-none of you move!" Said a King, apparently the only remaining one as the pulse-rifle-armed vigilante was done finishing off the remaining gangsters. Jackson whipped his head in the other direction, spotting a tremendously frightened criminal standing by the corner of the room, switching the target of his revolver between the teenager and the much older newcomer, hands visibly shaking at the sight.

Jackson himself froze, the mere sight of the gun's barrel pointed in his direction being more than enough to keep him in place. He might've been crazy enough to (Partially, so far.) raid a gangster hideout filled with top-notch guns and equipment, but he wasn't crazy enough to charge and punch a guy with a _revolver._ Well, he was crazy enough to do that twice with guys with guns, but he had the element of surprise by his side.

Much to his surprise, however, the other vigilante didn't seem intimidated nor pleased with the gangster's threat. Even with all the tension boiling inside of him, Jackson cast a glance at him: An obviously stocky man, dressed in a jacket with a dashing '76' emblazoned on the back. His hair was white, contradicting his rather youthful agility and strength displayed. He slowly turned his head towards the taunting criminal, until he looked at both him and the teenager in the back of the room. His eyes were concealed by a glaring red visor, and his face, by a mask, though Jackson could spot a large and nasty scar coming from within the mask vertically. A guttural groan came from the vigilante's mouth, and he turned around, his eyebrows furrowing and creating an expression of inhuman hatred combined with the visor's angry stare.

The gangster trembled like a leaf, and even if Jackson could feel him reading a shot, he hesitated, noticing that the '76' vigilante aimed his rifle at him. A single pulse round was fired, shooting the revolver out of the man's hand, earning a pathetic gasp from him. 76's advance was more animalistic now, his brows somehow furrowing even more, and he held his rifle with one hand while the other closed into a tight fist, groans coming from his mask as a sign of the criminal's doom.

Jackson gulped, and his stomach froze.

Now that was someone he'd _never_ think of messing with.

"Hey, isn't that the 76 guy that the UN is looking for?!" Echoed a question from an adjacent corridor, its doors still closed. 76's attention was taken for a moment, seeing how he whipped his head in the direction of the corridor, quickly grabbing his rifle with both hands to dispatch them. "Yeah, it's him, boys! Get his head, clean the mess, and we'll be rich! Haha!"

Laughter reverberated for a moment, and 76 suddenly ducked for cover behind one of the numerous ammo crates spread through the room that hadn't been ruined by the initial explosion. The boy was left staring confusedly at the scene, finally tearing his eyes off of the terrified gangster, leaning in some to try and peek at the corridor at a distance. His heart stopped for a moment: Another gangster, a huge and well-armored man, advanced slowly through the other corridor leading deeper into the bowels of the hideout with an intimidating weapon in his hands. The last thing Jackson knew before he too ran for cover was a hail of bullets coming from the machine gun, one so constant and utterly destructive that there was no shadow of doubt that whoever crossed the criminal's path would become an _actual_ human swiss cheese.

Jackson's eyes went back to the revolver-wielding gangster, noticing that the man scrambled around the floor for his gun. It wasn't that far away from his reach, but the sheer fear instilled within him made it hard to get a good grasp around the handle. As dangerous as it was, the teenager decided to take advantage of that. He ignored the deafening sounds of the machine gun going off just next room, clenching his teeth as he raised his arm son, gauntlet ready to strike. However, it seemed that Lady Luck had grown bored with favoring him now, and the criminal finally got a firm hold of his weapon, whipping his body around with blinding speed. The boy's eyes widened as he caught sight of the gun's barrel so close to his face,

Soldier 76 was faster, much to his luck. The vigilante fired a carefully aimed pulse round at the man's hand, ripping a scream from him as he errantly fired a bullet into the ceiling. A deafening ringing robbed Jackson of his hearing, and swung his arm wildly, a dry yet muffled thud confirming his hit on the revolver-wielding gangster. Even if he saw the man fall limply to the floor, barely holding on to his conscience, the hellish ringing assaulting his ears didn't cease, prompting him to grasp the sides of his hair and close his eyes for a moment.

Soon enough, the roar of that one machine gun came back to his attention, and he finally opened his eyes. Noticing that the bullets spewed from that mad gangster now shredded the floor instead of the opposite wall, he jumped, pressing himself against the same wall that 76 took cover. The old vigilante groaned loudly, trying to get a few bullets in himself, but the rain of death was constant enough to destroy his own rifle.

"Gah, get _off_ **my** lawn, you young punk!" He shouted angrily, his eyebrows arching at such an angle that the glare given by his visor became almost demonic. The intensity of his voice was such that he felt a wave of cold fear wash over him, yet his stubborn attitude spoke louder, making him remain glued to the wall.

In the interval of their one-sided exchange, the madman with the machine gun - no, scratch that, a **minigun** \- had advanced enough through the corridor to be able to gun them down, seeing that the flash of the fearsome weapon could be seen and its roar was much louder now. "Get out of there, you cowards! You're all dead! Dead!" He laughed, confident in his advance, yet Jackson could see that, despite 76's displeasure, he nodded in his direction, as if implying something. "Get out, get out, wherever you ar-"

The gangster was interrupted the second he crossed the doorway into the storage room, courtesy of the old vigilante's rather brutal rifle stock strike, one that made a wet 'whack!' echo through the room. Suddenly, the minigun's hail of death stopped, and Jackson's eyes shot wide as he saw the giant frame of the criminal falling flat in his direction. He swung from right to left at him, hitting the barely conscious man on the back of the head, yet saving himself from certain death by crushing as he fell on his side.

His eyes met with 76's immediately, and more screams were heard, further down the next hallway. Despite his good work, the older man still didn't seem pleased with the teenager's presence. "What're you looking at?! If you want to stick around, then move it!"

He did as he was told, a shiver running down his pine at 76's demand. The old man went up front, moving with such agility and energy that Jackson wondered if his apparent age even **meant** anything. Not only that, but he was merciless; Whichever King that dared confront them as they walked through the narrow halls were met with pulse rounds or firm rifle stock strikes, ones so brutal that he could hear the wet whacks from where he stood. If there was any hint of doubt that this old guy was not to be trifled with at this point, it had all been obliterated at that exact moment.

"Punk, get into cover already!" Came 76's voice, smashing through his thoughts and bringing him back to the real world with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. He blinked, and the sight before him made him freeze: In his train of ponderation, he had blinded himself from reality, and now he stood before yet another room filled heavily armed Kings. Before they could open fire, Jackson felt something enveloping him, its weight throwing him to the side. There was a terrible burning sensation coming from his arm, but none of the bullets seemed to hit him.

When he opened his eyes, he caught sight of 76 standing over him, blindly firing at the bandits over the myriad of cabinets and boxes he had thrown them behind. Jackson would mutter words of gratitude, yet a sudden and overwhelming pain washed over his body, making him grunt and hug the affected area, his arm. He summoned enough courage to glance at whatever happened to it, and the sight wasn't pretty: A bullet graze, leaving a horrible red cut on his skin, having torn through the fabric of his cloth and flesh alike. Jackson let out a yelp of terror, pushing his back against the boxes.

76 grunted at him, and he fished quickly through his belt, fixating a small cylindrical object on the floor. Jackson stopped his wailing for a moment as he watched it spring into action, projecting a curious circle of soothing yellow light around him. Much to his surprise, whatever the device had cast around him seemed to close his wounds, and even cure him of the shoulder pain he was feeling. "Just stay in it to stabilize yourself… and once you're done, get up and fight! Flank around them, go!"

Jackson went into a shaky crouching position behind their piece of cover, moving alongside it as 76 had ordered him, face marked with utter shock. Just what had he gotten himself into?! There was no time to think, bullets wheezing above, adrenaline driving him further despite the obvious danger of the situation. He threw a glance back at 76, and the old man made a gesture with his hand for him to go on before firing at the gangsters again.

Truth be told, 76 was correct about the flanking part. The criminals didn't seem to have covered this part of the room, giving him easy access to the rows of cover they had set up out of either paranoia or sheer laziness. He moved as slowly as he could, taking a stop as he reached the other barricade and peered at it. One of the Kings was there, crouched, and he readied himself to attack… though, the second the man decided to try and land a hit on the vigilante, he was instead hit straight on the chest by a pulse round, limply falling over.

Jackson's stomach did a backflip at the sight, though the adrenaline made him pull through it, instead leading him to keep sneaking behind their lines.

As scary as this 76 guy was, the teenager couldn't deny that he was **ridiculously** good at fighting crime.

He was once again yanked out of his thoughts as a door directly to his right - one he hadn't noticed before - opened, revealing a King with quite the mean-looking pistol in his hand. Jackson went wide-eyed, his heart jumping on his chest, and threw a desperate punch at the criminal. Despite the jumpiness of his strike, it was successful at disarming the criminal, though not without him firing a bullet that flew dangerously close to his head. The teenager went for another hit, yet the hook missed completely as the man ducked, grinning madly once his hands reached for a knife, and laughed as he gave a firm thrust with it.

Jackson didn't know how he did it, but his normal hand grasped the man's wrist just as he felt the knife's sharp tip poking at his stomach with a small pang of pain. The King seemed surprised with the quick reaction, yet he pressed on, applying so much strength that their limbs quivered. The boy grunted, applying every ounce of his own strength to fight back, his right arm trying to move into position for a punch. He noticed the criminal's eyes switching from the knife to the gauntlet, expression eerily unchanging as he tried to block the incoming strike… but to no avail.

The teenager was filled with guilt as the punch finally connected, dealing massive damage to the criminal's hand as he recoiled in pain. Of course, he wouldn't apologize, but he had visibly restrained himself from attacking further. "Gotcha, kid!" Exclaimed the man, an insane look in his eyes as he struggled to lunge at the boy. Jackson jumped back in panic, avoiding the strike just by a hair, and replied with another hook, this one more successful as it landed dead on the thug's head, sending him to the floor limply.

Jackson didn't have time to breathe, as yet another thug - this one looking rather battered, though still rather confident with a machete in hands - lunged at him, arms wrapping around his form as they both fell to the ground. "No escape now, boy!" He announced as he pressed all of his weight against the teenager, holding his machete with both hands. Jackson panicked, raising his gauntlet arm as a desperate shield, feeling the machete penetrating through some of the gaps but being unable to go any further. The criminal groaned, frustrated, and wasted no time in sending a powerful punch at his face, hitting him straight in the temple.

The boy's world darkened for a moment, small black spots emerging at the corners of his eyes. His head bobbed from side to side limply, and the pain coming from his temple became screamingly unbearable. Even as he felt unconsciousness fighting to take over him, he noticed the King laughing as he raised the machete above his head, ready to claim his life. Suddenly, however, a red-gloved hand emerged, grabbing the criminal by the neck before smashing him face first on the floor.

"Coward." 76 stated angrily, prompting Jackson to weakly roll onto his side to watch the scene, eyes widening some as the old man gave the thug one last stomp, rendering the man unconscious. Despite his hazy state, the teenager could hear the vigilante groaning rather inhumanely as he stood straight up, turning to the boy with an outstretched hand which he took rather feebly.

Once he was back on his feet, albeit a tad shakily, the boy was met with quite the sight. All of the Kings who had dared to open fire at them were downed, some obviously beaten, others simply shot. The surprisingly bloodless carnage around him made him feel light on the head, and he stumbled back, the thug's punch still affecting him somehow. He exchanged a brief glance with 76, and the vigilante seemed to want to say something, only to be interrupted by a distant, muffled voice.

"...you idiots! I said, _**protect me against the damned Soldier whatever the hell that number was!**_ " The voice belonged to a man, a frightened one at that, and it seemed to come from an specific room, obviously close to the one they stood in. Both intruders glanced in the direction, and the old man was quick to run up to it, gesturing for his unlikely companion to follow him. He pressed his back to the wall next to the door, prompting Jackson to do the same, and stood outside of his cover for a moment, accurately shooting off the hinges. "You useless mongrels! Do something! He's going to get in here!"

76 groaned, sticking his head out of the cover to stare at the door once again. Even if the hinges had been damaged, the door was still quite heavy-looking, and it wouldn't go down with a shoulder bash. Not only that, but kicking it down would leave them open to enemy fire… but the old man seemed to have come up with an idea, his concealed eyes analysing the teenager's gauntlet for a moment. "If you're still sticking around… follow to my plan."

All that Jackson could do was nod, the sheer fact that he had been addressed by this scary Soldier 76 and the persistent pain coming from the punch he had received made him a bit dizzy, to say the least, but he was recovering. "Punch the door, and I'll cover you. Hit the deck immediately."

His eyes went wide, fear welling up in his innards like a flood. Was he really supposed to be the one who goes first? Sure, they had been seemingly scared out of their minds by the absolute ass-handling performed by 76, though… it didn't mean that he wouldn't be gunned down the second that door was blasted off its frame. "B-but they'd-"

"I said, I'll coveryou." 76's gloved hands reached for the waist utility belt he wore, touching what looked like an extra version of those healing canisters from earlier on. Jackson didn't feel any less scared, but gulped; He had gotten himself in this situation, so now it was time to play along. "Play along. I don't plan on having a wounded **kid** on my watch. And I **won't** have one." The vigilante heaved a sigh, as if painfully admitting something to himself. "All I need, is your trust.

Despite the odd reassurance given by the ruthless vigilante, the young boy was still shaken by the urgency in his voice, and preferred not to argue with him. He inhaled a deep breath, reliving some of his dizziness, and stepped in front of the door; Not without taking a few steps back beforehand. He'd need to charge to bring the thing down, wouldn't he? Just as he started to take some distance for his move, Soldier 76 moved behind him; In a stance that told him that he was ready to move in as well. The old man made a gesture with his head, and Jackson knew that he was about to do the craziest thing he had ever done in his entire life.

Allowing that one feeling of courage and determination take over, he stepped quickly towards the door, arm raised and ready to punch the door. There was a moment of hesitation just as he was to strike, but it didn't seem to matter; Something hit against his foot, robbing him of his balance and making him fall forwards, his gauntlet hitting the door at full force. There was a feeling of weightlessness before he fell on the door like a ragdoll, the structure having been blasted out of the frame and serving as a painful 'cushion' for his pathetic fall. Bullets soon started to pour around him, and he quickly crawled into a fetal position as one luckily ricocheted against his gauntlet, leaving a sizable dent engraved on it. Pain shot up as the metal caved in some, making him press himself against the floor even more.

Time appeared to slow down around him as he spotted 76's frame diving directly **above** him, the red visor glancing down at the boy, a hand moving quickly to press a button at its side. The vigilante rolled, bullets narrowly missing him and the teenager, though the second he was back on his feet, a large holographic slate appeared before the visor. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. **"I've got you in my sights."**

What played through Jackson's eyes felt surreal: Within a second, 76 fired impossibly accurate bursts at the certain dozen of criminals aiming at him - some even perched on catwalks leading to other areas of the hideout - , every pulse round hitting their target and dropping them like fries. There was a beat, and all that they could hear was the pained moans of the Kings before they all dropped dead, a deafening silence falling on the room like a mute hammer.

Jackson was left slack-jawed at the old man's astounding accuracy, not minding the pains coming from his body from his fall. However, as deadly as 76's surprise attack was, one man was still left alive. Without a single defender left, an individual in a suit, oddly dressed compared to his more 'gangsta-styled' comrades, cowered, lowering himself and scrambling around for a gun. 76 grunted, reloading his rifle, only to fire a single round onto the man's hand, earning a shriek and effectively keeping him from fighting back.

Ignoring the little discomforts all across his body, Jackson picked himself from the floor, weakly dusting himself off as he recovered from the fall. So the old man's plan _did_ work… it was still immensely scary. Taking a moment to gather his surroundings, he breathed deeply, eyes scouring around the room. To say the least, this one room was rather curious when compared to the others. Instead of crates of ammunition and weaponry, it bore desks, cabinets full of documents, drawing boards with lists of what to do and what looked like a list of Omnic targets to eliminate in the city; Not only that, but it had flights of metallic stairs leading to the catwalks he had seen earlier, which, despite their oddity, seemed to give access to even more office-like areas.

His examination was rudely interrupted, however, as a wet 'whack' sound similar to 76's rifle stock meeting a bandit's head echoed through the room. The teenager whipped his head in the direction of the noise, only to cringe and feel a pang of empathy for the man in the suit as his face kissed the vigilante's knee. He felt like turning away from the violence, though something caught his attention... was that guy familiar to him?

Driven by his curiosity, Jackson walked closer, trying his best to not mind the beatdown the man in the suit was suffering, courtesy of 76. Eventually, after having delivered a punch to his stomach that robbed the supposed 'leader' of the hideout of his oxygen, the vigilante gave him a small break, and the teenager could see his face more clearly now. There was a moment of realization as he identified what looked familiar, and Jackson nearly recoiled in terror.

 _W-what? It can't be… He…_

Before he could give the beaten criminal an once-over to prove his fears right, 76 crouched next to him, noticing a small brooch stuck to the suit's chest. Even from where he stood, the boy could read it: _'Richard Markison, CEO'._ Jackson's heart was filled with dread as he finally recognized the man's name, and face. Richard, CEO of the Markinson Banks… his mom's boss! He had seen the man on several occasions before, and even had a deal of respect for him when he accompanied his mother on her work back when he was much younger. 76 didn't seem to notice that, instead groaning before roughly pressing the defeated businessman against the floor. "Formal attire for such a rat, eh? Scum…"

The teenager was left paralysed as 76 left the man on the floor, too hurt to move or try to fight back, and instead browsed through the piles of documents and plans scattered around the room. Needless to say, Jackson felt betrayed. The man he even looked up to, despite the corruption rumoured to plague banks, was supposedly one of the heads of the gang terrorizing Baltimore. Richard started to groan in pain, rolling on his side a bit, and looked up to the boy standing by him. Startled, Jackson quickly faced away, taking large steps in the opposite direction and feigning interest in a large table plagued with multiple documents spread on its surface. He couldn't afford to let Richard realize it was _him,_ out of all people, who had aided this internationally wanted vigilante foil his whole operation.

While he'd very much like to take a breather, the myriad of papers on the table proved to be greatly interesting, even with the terrible turmoil going on inside his head. Pushing the thoughts away, he grabbed a document at random, sliding it out of its folder before laying his eyes on it. Most of the information was fairly boring, with names and signatures here and there, but the sight of another familiar icon caught his attention. That… was the symbol of that one terrorist organization… Talin, Talan- Talon! The mere thought of the cell made him shiver, memories of the terrible attacks carried out by its members in the past playing in his mind, and he nearly dropped the document, only to have it snatched by 76. The old man seemed to have been gathering quite a lot of documents around the room, telling by the pile of papers held in his left hand, and read the one the teenager had found more carefully.

"Weaponry negotiations with Talon…" He concluded silently, adding the document to his pile without another word. Jackson could only step back and watch as the vigilante rummaged through the other files, collecting a few more. Needless to say, the teenager was absolutely shocked. It was all a lot to take in. The thoughts swirling around in his head were enough to make him feel nauseous, though he tried to maintain a stiff upper lip; He went and put himself in this situation, so the least he could do was deal with the consequences… even if said consequences were terrible discoveries and being shot at multiple times.

Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes, allowing his shoulders to slump forward some. Perhaps it was better to busy his mind with something else, and just sneak out of the place as soon as possible. The first doubt that came to mind was, what were this Soldier 76's intents? He had seen him on the news, of course, though he seemed to attack only major facilities, such as old Overwatch stations. What business did he have with a mere gang hideout in Baltimore? Despite the mystery, this small break from the harsh reality just presented to him was a breath of relief for the young 'hero', and he opened his eyes, watching as the old man grabbed one last folder, instead storing this one inside his jacket.

Now that 76 was distracted, Jackson thought that now would be the best moment to run away… only to realize that there would be no viable exit aside from backtracking all the way to the entrance. He turned around, glancing at the busted doorway, and took a step forward… only to hear the other vigilante clearing his throat.

"I wouldn't go that way if I were you, kid." He said, voice gruff, and Jackson glanced back at him. He had somehow found a roll of duct tape, and was tying Richard's arms and legs, and apparently muting him, telling by the muffled sounds. The teenager froze in place. "Police's going to come." A pause, and he nestled the pile of incriminating evidence in the CEO's arms, making the man's pleas become a tad louder. The vigilante glanced around for a moment, not bothering to pay attention to the now struggling Richard, and eventually pointed towards a dark room that could be reached through the catwalks. "Over there. Move it, kid, c'mon."

Without any other warning, 76 broke into a sprint, and the mere prospect of being left alone in a room full of dead thugs and a bound CEO whom he knew a bit too well was enough to get him moving as well. He did his best to avert his eyes from the corpses, though he couldn't help but to watch Richard from the corner of his eye. How could he…? He could have endangered his mother's life all this time; All that time, the nice 'boss' guy was but a filthy criminal, tangling himself with terrorists and being a big member of the Kings…

Jackson shook his head, pushing the wave of disgust and sorrow back. He was only concerned about his mother, and, well, getting out of here. As he was lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed that 76 led him in the room he had pointed out earlier, the old man stopping and gesturing for him to remain close.

Just as they started to traverse what looked like a dimly lit set of maze-like service corridors, Jackson's temple started to ache terribly, result of his adrenaline rush dying ultimately. Not only that, but he was soon reminded of the multiple cuts and bruises on his hands, arms and even his legs, some spots of his clothes having been torn by the one-on-one fights he narrowly survived and some even resembling bullet holes. Not only that, but the clear blue of his hoodie had been stained by dirt and dust, his gauntlet had gotten quite the dent on the side, and his snowboarding goggles bore a small crack where he had been struck by that knife-wielding thug.

Needless to say, he was quite roughed up. At least his bag was… slightly intact.

Exhaustion came quickly, and he couldn't remember a thing about the path taken by 76 as he lazily climbed a set of ladders, ones that miraculously led to the surface after the vigilante removed the lid.

Much to their luck, this supposed sewer access ladder left them in some secluded alleyway, poorly lit by a few industrial lights. Jackson fell like falling to his knees in exhaustion, though he settled with shambling towards the nearest wall, panting profusely. 76 stood there for a moment, listening as the red and blue lights of a police hover-car sped through a nearby street.

As he rested, the memories of what had transpired played in Jackson's mind like a fever dream. Just… what happened? He wanted to officially become a hero by beating bad guys, but instead, he was met with gunfire, bullet grazes, bruises, hesitant cooperation with a ruthless vigilante, and learning a dark truth about his mother's workplace. That thought plagued his mind the most, more than the deadly encounters and the dead thugs. What should he make of it? Telling by how the police was on their way, they'd arrest Richard and whoever survived the onslaught, but… what would happen now?

He couldn't know.

"Hey, kid." Came 76's grizzly voice, the glowing red glare of his visor seeming a bit less intense now. Jackson looked up, nodding to confirm that he had his attention. "...Good job. And stay safe."

Jackson's eyes stared tiredly as the vigilante shared one last look with him before sprinting away, soon disappearing from his sight and leaving him alone in the dark, only the distant sirens of the police making him company. A feeling of odd tranquility washed over him for a moment now that he was on his own, only to be mixed with his doubts and his fears, bringing a sour expression to his face.

Gathering whatever strength was left, he quickly took off his goggles and the tablecloth hiding his face, storing them in his backpack. The gauntlet soon followed, and he pulled the hood back, running a hand through his hair. "That was… something…" He said, tone uncertain, and picked himself off the wall, legs carrying him out of the alley in an exhausted shamble. "Something full of… something…"

It was all too clear that he was too tired to think straight for now. Just as he set foot out of the alley, every joint in his body screamed in protest, and his head felt as if being bombarded infinitely with pain. The boy grunted, inhaling a deep yet shaky breath as he summoned what felt like his last reserve of energy, enough to carry him over to the closest bus stop.

After a bus finally arrived, completely empty, he boarded the vehicle, sitting by one of the many vacant seats. He still couldn't know what to make out of his experience. Part of him knew that he had done good, as the Kings would take a huge blow with the capture of one of their leaders, though the rest of him felt concerned about the amount of danger he had placed himself in… and the painful truth unveiled about Richard.

Resting his head against the window, he watched the empty streets of Baltimore with a somber gaze. Pessimism was quick to come; He had nearly died thrice, involved himself with a internationally hunted man, and uncovered a secret that could bring possible complications to his mother's job. _Is being a hero really worth it?_ He asked himself, feeling a wave of sorrow welling inside of him, tears starting to form at the corner of his eyes. Perhaps it was time to stop. To accept that it was all but a irrational teenager dream…

But there was something inside of him that drove him forward. Something that didn't allow him to give up. Like a little flame, burning defiantly in the blizzard of doubts that was his mind. His hand limply grasped around the handle, as if representing his wish to remain on this path. Was he really ready to throw away the inspiration, the opportunity that brought back the fuel to the engines of his life?

 _No._

Being a hero required sacrifices. Being a hero involved danger. Being a hero involved becoming seeing the world for what it really was, as rotten and oppressing as it may be. He may not fully comprehend such concepts, though he was learning to cope with them, the discoveries of such obstacles only serving to drive him onwards, to give him the strength necessary to hurdle such adversities.

Now he knew. Even with all the pain, the fear, the crushing truth, he had done good. He had helped Baltimore fight against the cancer that corrupted its core. A small contribution, albeit a meaningful one.

His gaze became more confident, more determined, and he sat up straight, even with all the pains that plagued his body. A future full of hardships awaited him, and he was ready to pursue it with every fiber of his soul.

Now, he knew. He was finally traversing the path of a hero.

…

 **Phew. Longest chapter I've ever written, I believe. Probably not the best, though. Please, let me know what you think in the reviews! They help me improve and identify that which I need to correct in later chapters so I can give you guys a quality experience.**

 **Anyways, hope you guys enjoyed it! With enough luck, chapter 4 will come on soon.**

 **Till then, stay tuned!**

 **-SteelyThePally**


	4. I'm still alive!

Hello everyone!

Firstly, I hate writing these. They make me feel like an incompetent, lazy writer, given that I just went through a 5-6 month period of hiatus without any sign of life. And to those who enjoy and follow this story, my deepest apologies. What exactly happened during that time will be specified below:

Essentially, I managed to neglect my way into a bad situation with my grades in school. While I do admit that my introduction to high school did play a small but considerable part in it, my own irresponsibility and carelessness managed to put me at risk of failing the school year. Of course, my grades were atrocious only at Maths and Physics, but these subjects carry more than enough weight to result in failure should I not get these respective grades back up. Needless to say, that left me anxious and caused turmoil between me and my parents - nothing serious, I'll assure you - , so my inspiration completely died. I often tried to put some work on Chapter 4 (Which I'm currently re-working), but I had to go full focus on studying to avoid wasting an entire year. Resuming all that, I was in a rough spot.

Regardless, I am sorry for this long period of silence. Sadly, I cannot promise you anything, but recently, a string of good events (Having passed the year with decent grades after deciding to quit my slothful ways, seeing my friends quite a lot during my vacations, knowing that people still favourite and follow the story despite the lack of updates) got my spirits back up. I'll put some more work into Chapter 4, and with enough luck, may even release a one-shot idea I've had in the back of my mind for a while now.

Once again, my apologies for the overall absent wreck I've been for a long while. I hope you can all understand, though I'd comprehend if not. Regardless, I'm looking forward to see you all on next chapter!

Till next time,

SteelyThePally


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